


Champagne, Wine and Vodka

by emiwaka29



Series: Modern Fódlan AU (Módlan) [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, CSS, Check Endnotes for Background Relationships, Drama, Everyone Has Something Going On, Everyone is Flawed, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Pining, Slow Burn, The Past Affects Everything, Unreliable Narrator, Worldbuilding, eventual angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 99,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24455011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emiwaka29/pseuds/emiwaka29
Summary: Ingrid's type in men is predictable.She has a consistent record. Sweet, gentle dorks who like literature or art. Really,reallysweet dorks, which is why Sylvain never really could hate them. Even if, well, he wanted to be the one to go on picnics with her, buy her nice (not too expensive, she'd strangle him) things and to be calledhers.Hers. And her, his. That'd be nice. Sigh.But it's cool, it's fine, as it has been since Continental Year 3018, when she was with Ashe. Or in Continental Year 3020, when she was with Ignatz.Yeah. He can wait a little longer. Even though it's Continental Year 3028 and he's thirty and he's been in love with her since he was twenty-one and Dorothea is getting sick of his cowardice and might out him and—Oh, yeah. So:What thefuckis up with Claude vonfuckingRiegan?
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Minor Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/My Unit | Byleth - Relationship, Minor Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Claude von Riegan, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Modern Fódlan AU (Módlan) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1766293
Comments: 517
Kudos: 209





	1. Bitter Champagne and Bitter Reunions Just Go Hand in Hand, Don’t They?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunnilee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnilee/gifts).



> The inspiration for this work and series is sunnilee, who churned out Modern AU sylvgrid fics left, right and centre, so much so that it inspired my lazy ass to start writing. 
> 
> UPDATE: @AdultWithSpareTime graciously beta'd this chapter and was so, so helpful! Can we all get a clap for the beauty that is the beta reader?
> 
> Update August/31/2020: Chapter 1 has been rewritten.
> 
> Update January/19/2021: This fic starts off pretty light but gets a bit heavy later on, particularly in terms of mental health. I have a system developed for Content Warnings, which you will later encounter if you choose to keep reading after this chaotic first chapter LOL. All in all, it’s a long ride, but I hope you have fun!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/188967102@N07/50326722463/in/dateposted/)

She’s late.

She’s late, and therefore she must be dead. 

She _has_ to be. She _must_ be. And he’s _not_ being dramatic! It’s her, after all, and she’d rather die than be late. Literally. She’s said as much and demonstrated as much — because remember the time she dashed across a red light because she was going to be late to Felix’s sweet sixteen birthday bash?

Yeah. Stickler for rules — _"No, Sylvain, jaywalking is illegal!”—_ Her™jaywalked to avoid being late. 

Meaning, she would rather _die._

Not metaphorically. Not poetically. Not theoretically.

Literally. 

L-I-T-E-R-A-L-L-Y. 

_Literally_.

Plus, she hasn’t read his texts, much less _replied,_ much less pick up her _bloody phone_ and she always, always picks up her phone! Unless she’s working. And she is not working! It’s the holiday season, damn it, and she’s finally coming back to see ~~him~~ them, after like, what? Two years? They’ll be meeting face-to-face again after months of FaceTime, phone calls and text messages and she’s supposed to be off the plane by now and right _here._

With _him_.

Oh, um, ha-ha, well, or...Well. Not necessarily just with _him._ Like, with Dimitri or Byleth. Or even Felix. Dedue, too.

She’s just meant to be _here._

But she’s not.

Therefore, she must be dead.

And he has proof! Just let him present his case:

Ingrid🧑⚖️  
  
**Today** 11:45 AM  
Ready to hear Dimitri go and on about his lovely fiancée tonight? I'm not. Wanna skip?  
**Today** 12:55 PM  
Heard from Dimitri your flight was delayed by a couple of hours. You have horrible luck, you know that?  
**Today** 2:35 PM  
Wow, you're really going to be late🤭  
Ingrid Brandl Galatea....late.  
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA😂😂😂  
**Today** 5:30 PM  
Got off you flight yet?  
*your  
**Today** 6:23 PM  
Alright I'm a little worried now, you good?  
**Today** 7:10 PM  
We're running out of punch...👀🍹  
**Today** 7:30 PM  
Sooooooooo  
Are you dead?  
**Today** 7:45 PM  
You must be dead

Yep. She must be dead.

But how? What would take _Ingrid Brandl Galatea_ down? A bear attack? Did she slip on a peel from a banana that she absolutely eviscerated? À la, _'Vengeance des Bananes_ '? Or a simple old tragic plane crash?

Ha. Maybe a bear, a banana and plane crash combined to take down the forces of— oh.

Oh goddess, a _plane crash._ Hold on, hold on, what are the chances of _that?_ Well, probably likelier than a bear attack — but does Leicester even have bears? Derdriu shouldn’t. That seems like a common-sense conclusion.

Anyway. _Plane crash._ What are the chances?

Time to google. 

G o o g l e

chance of dying in

chance of dying in **car crash**  
chance of dying in **car crash Faerghus**  
chance of dying in **plane crash**  
chance of dying in **childbirth**  
chance of dying in **skydiving** ****

Okay, so, 1 in 11 million.   
  
Annnnnnnnd...Derdriu's population is like, what? Also 11 million people? 

Sooooooooo...Oh.

Oh goddess. 

Oh goddess, she _must_ be dead. 

“Oh goddess,” Sylvain whispers. “She must be dead.”

Oh, _goddess—_

“Sylvain.” 

A harsh, seething voice. A voice that he recognises. 

Sylvain looks up from his phone, parted lips rested against his champagne flute. 

“Felix,” he whispers. “Ingrid’s dead.”

“I don’t care. Where’s the _boar?”_

“Excuse me?” Sylvain gawks, pressing his phone to his chest. “You don’t care that Ingrid’s dead? _Ingrid?”_

“I don’t care because she’s not dead, you idiot. She’s late. Now. Where. Is. _Dimitri?”_

Sylvain frowns with bunched up brows. “Why? What’d he do?”

“Make use of your eyes and figure it out for yourself.” Felix groans, before stepping closer into his space. So rude. “So? Where is that _fucking_ boar? I know you know.”

Huh. So, Ingrid is dead (oh _goddess,_ she _must_ be), Felix is pissed (and he doesn’t care about Ingrid’s death, cold-hearted ass), while Dimitri, the main man of tonight’s party, is allegedly nowhere to be found (but not really). 

And yes, Sylvain _does_ know where he is. He’s in the cellar, getting wine for Jeralt. 

But he doesn’t know how Ingrid died or why Felix is pissed. He’d very much like to know the latter, but his overpowered superpowered item called the ‘phone’ doesn’t seem like it will be any use, so he gives up on _that_ line of inquiry. 

Instead, Sylvain attempts to make use of a less superpowered item, his contact lens covered eyes to find the answer to the question of: ‘Why is Felix pissed?’. 

And so, his eyes survey the welcoming hall of the illustrious Blaiddyd mansion. He finds, well, a lot of people, as is expected from a party hosted by the Blaiddyd name. In his vicinity, he spots busy caterers rushing about with platters of drinks and pretty little cakes. He hears some musicians playing the typical ‘rich people party pieces’. AKA: classical music. 

And, of course, the rich people. Businessmen, socialites, shareholders and politicians who are on his ‘need to talk to’ list. 

Nothing seems odd.

Until he looks over to a royal blue canapé sofa, where two young women are resting and chatting away. Two very pretty women. Which, again, seems normal. But these two women, are, well, very familiar and—

Oh.

Annette and Mercedes.

Huh. He hadn’t noticed they’d arrived. Wow, and Annette looks— literally the same. How? _How_ does she look so youthful? Skincare routine secrets, please. In fact, he should go say hi to procure precious skincare secrets, but also especially to say hi to good old Mercedes and— _ohhhhhhh._

“Ohhhhhh.” Sylvain hums, before twirling on his heel to face Felix, sucking a breath in between clenched teeth. “Annette?”

Annette. Annette is here as Sylvain knew she would be. Because Dimitri asked him about Mercedes first, before then proceeding to ask advice on how to broach the topic of _Annette_ with Felix. Now, at the time, Sylvain had like seven mimosas and three glasses of wine in his system —as is typical whenever Dorothea and he go out on a night to the town— so he just said: ‘ _Ahhh, what could go wrong! Just ask him!'_

When he awoke that next morning, he immediately regretted it, because Dimitri _must_ have been killed. Why? Well, that would be because Annette is Felix’s forlorn ‘one who got away’, and he _knew_ how Felix would react. 

Cold. _Murder._

But then Dimitri informed him that Felix said it was ‘a-okay’ (he’s paraphrasing) and that Annette would be coming with Mercedes. 

Yay! Fun! 

Except: Yay? Fun? 

...Eh, not even a questionable ‘yay’ or ‘fun’.

Because from the way Felix grits his teeth like he’s constipated, how his clenched fists look just so ready to throw hands and how his nose flares like a provoked bull, it means: oh. Ohhhhh. He might not have known, after all. 

Whoops!

“Why is _she_ here?” asks Felix. Though, in all honesty, ‘asks’ is putting it mildly. More like, hisses. Scary. 

“Hold on, hold on.” Sylvain raises his palms, because, hold on. Dimitri wouldn’t lie or trick anyone. Especially with Felix as his target. Cause, duh. Cold. _Murder_. “Dimitri said that _you_ said—"

“—Direct me to him,” Felix cuts him off. So rude. “He and I need to talk.” 

“Just…” Sylvain pauses, stretching out the word. “Talk, I hope?”

Felix sighs, feet tapping against the marble flooring, fingers threading through his hair. “Who knows. Who fucking knows.”

Eh-hem. Allow him to translate:

‘No. I will slaughter that boar, but I will not say it because then you won’t tell me where he is. Tell. Me.’ 

Oh, but too bad. He’s an experienced interpreter of Felix-speak. And—

“Hold on,” says Sylvain. “Where’s Dorothea?”

Eyes glancing sidewards, Felix tugs at his tie, loosening it. “Why should I know?”

“...Uh.” Sylvain blinks. “Because she’s your date?”

The tie slips off, and Felix scrunches it up to shove it in his back pocket. “So?”

“Felix.”

“What?”

“I’m glad you never took me to prom.” 

“...The fuck?” Felix whispers with a squint. “You say that as if that was ever something probable. As if it was ever once considered, which it fucking wasn’t.”

“Well.” Sylvain sips at his glass with raised brows. “I’m glad it never was on the table, then. Because the way you treat women is horrible, Felix. Look, I know you looked up to me as a kid, but you really didn’t need to emulate _that—_ ” 

“—Shut the fuck up and tell me where Dimitri is. You exhaust me.”

That’s his line, honestly. 

“Fine, but under one condition.”

“State your terms.”

“Tell me what’s been going on with you and Dorothea recent—” 

“—That’s none of your business,” says Felix, way too quickly. A difficult topic for a difficult man, it seems. “Tell me where Dimitri is.”

“Hm. Well.” Sylvain sips his champagne. Mm. Bubbly. “That’s none of _my_ business, is it?”

“Fuck,"Felix hisses, twisting a hand into Sylvain’s collar and— “ _you._ ”

Uh-oh.

Uh-oh because, wow, Felix is actually quite-rather-very pissed. 

Meaning: Cold. _Murder._

Just wait for him, Ingrid. He’ll join you, soon. He'll be there with you.

Except, no, because if _he_ goes down, then Felix’s next victim will be Dimitri, and then Felix will go down because Byleth will enact...cold. _Murder._

So, he’s the last line of defence for himself, Dimitri and ironically, Felix. And, well, he’d rather have the Faerghus Four all alive and intact, so. No thank you. 

Plus, on the off chance that Ingrid is actually alive, he needs to be here.

Because he wants to see her again. Hear her voice. Even— well. Let’s not get _too_ cocky. 

So:

“He’s on the third floor,” he lies. “On the balcony, with your dad.” He lies again.

Felix raises a brow, hand still twisted in his collar.

Sylvain shrugs. “Look, either ask Byleth or check it out yourself.”

“...Fine.” Felix shrugs his hand away from the collar. Damn it, it’s definitely wrinkled now. “I will, then.”

And so, Felix turns on his hand me down wingtips (they were originally Sylvain’s; good to see he’s actually using them) and begins his march.

“Felix!” Sylvain yells. “Be nice to him! He’s the birthday boy _and_ the engaged boy! Kill him and Byleth will kill _you!”_

Felix shouts from the staircase, “I can take her!” 

“No, you really can’t!” Sylvain yells back, but alas, there is no response as Felix rushes up the final stairs, disappearing from sight.

With a sigh, Sylvain takes another sip of champagne. Tsk, tsk, Felix. He really couldn't take on Byleth. That woman's an alien abomination. 

But anyway. Time to report to deceased Mother Dearest.

Ingrid🧑⚖️  
  
**Today** 7:55 PM  
I'm probably going to join you soon at the Blue Sea Star because.  Cold. MURDER!!!  But just in case you ARE alive, miraculously, I’ll go hide  Because I know you’d just miss me soooooo much if I DID die😘

Yeah.

Yeah. Um, that’s like, cool, right?

It reads platonically, right? She wouldn’t be able to tell, right? That. Like. It’s not meant to be platonic. But it reads platonically.

Right?

Even if he _did_ use a kissy face. 

Yeah. A kissy face. So what? It’s cool, it's fine. They’re Sylvain and Ingrid! Mock-flirting (yeah... _mock_ ) is like a thing with them, since, like, puberty! It’s all good. 

Kissy faces mean nothing. 

Yeah. 

Oh goddess, he used a _kissy—_

“Hello there, Sylvain.”

—face.

Sylvain pauses his incoming panic-driven inner monologue. Now. That is a very, _very_ familiar voice, what with its trademark melodious lilt, steady cadence and dulcet tones. 

Oh, right. It is the voice whose owner’s presence never fails to bring a smile to his lips. 

“How have you been?” asks Mercedes, glossy peach-coloured lips formed into a sincere smile. She offers her glass in greeting. “Well, I hope?”

“Mercedes,” says Sylvain, matching her soft tone and gentle smile with his lesser versions. In kinship, he clinks his glass against hers. “It’s been around a year? Gorgeous as ever, I see.”

“Oh, you.” Mercedes brings the glass to her quirked up lips. After a long sip, she continues, “Always such a flatterer.”

“It’s true!” Sylvain laughs because it _is_ true, and how funny it is for her to suggest otherwise. “And you’re only proving my point, you know, with how enrapturing your smile is.”

Mercedes grins in a mischievous manner one would not expect from one ‘Mercedes von Martritz’. Similarly, she lightly and playfully pushes his shoulder and the gleeful, joyful sensation of laughter bubbles up his throat like the champagne they are both nursing. 

Accompanying the endorphins brought forth by the former is the feeling of stable comfort beating in his chest. She is, after all, and as always, a comforting presence to him. Even after all this time — weeks, months, years, it doesn’t matter. And even if she, well...broke his heart at one point, it doesn’t matter. Because in all honesty, he probably broke hers more, after all. 

But, as all conversations with exes eventually do, the focus of their discussion U-turns to the cause and reason of _why_ they broke up in the first place.

“So, how have things been with…” His tongue rests behind his bottom set of teeth because while it only is but one word that he needs to vocalise, one simple name, it is a difficult one to say. “You know.”

“Emile?”

Though, that was never the case for her. As ever, the name slides off her lips and tongue, easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.

Sylvain nods. “Yeah.”

“Better.” Mercedes leans back against the wall and the curtain flutters by her figure, framing her white dress with white satin. Eyes sweeping over the welcoming hall, she takes another sip of champagne. “He’s been properly diagnosed now. Dissociative identity disorder and PTSD.”

“Right.” Sylvain sips down a gulp of champagne. Not so bubbly now. A shame. He smacks his lips, then whispers, “...I’m sorry.”

“No, no. It’s a good thing.” Mercedes grasps for his hand and slowly shakes her head. “Because it means that he’ll finally get the help that he needs.”

“Oh, yeah, of course. That’s why you fought so hard for it, after all, and—” Sylvain releases a sigh. Damn it. “Sorry. I just meant that I wish that it didn’t even need to happen in the first place...if you get what I mean?”

Eck. He’s supposed to be good with words, as per his occupation’s demand, yet look at him. Spewing out platitudes and flailing about like a fish on land. Then again, it’s a topic that he struggles with. Who can blame him, though? They’re discussing the causation of a break-up he never ever wanted. One that he’s come to terms with and even come to appreciate and— oh well. 

“...Thank you,” Mercedes whispers, her grasp on his hand tightening, though in a comforting way, not at all stifling. Sylvain looks her way, and yeah, her smile is as blinding as the chandelier above their heads. He'd say she’s more beautiful, though. “You’ve always been so kind to me. To others. As always.”

Sylvain is a pretty impenetrable guy. Spiders? Just grab some bug spray or a slipper. Bam! Splattered. Ghosts? They don’t exist, it’s mere superstition, that was a shadow, so it’s fine. Don’t buy into that crap. That’s how cults get you. And heights? Look, he is _not_ going to fall. His grasp on gravity is, like, kind of admirable. 

But he does have _one_ weakness. A weakness called sincerity.

Which Mercedes von Martritz _loves_ to exploit. 

Which she just _loves_ to pair up with compliments. 

Which equals:

Sincerity + compliments = itchy-itchy, ow-ow, stop, stop, this is mortifying, embarrassing, and he is _unworthy._

It’s a double whammy that never fails to make the hairs on his neck rise. To make his skin burn and irritatingly itchy. To make him feel as if he needs to smack himself silly because he most certainly is _not_ what she thinks he is, and he most definitely does _not_ deserve her kind words. So, he needs to ground himself with some sort of good old self-deprecation. 

But that’s impolite, you know, to reject a sincere compliment. That’s why he hates them — because _he_ has to be _sincere_ back (ow, ow, yowch, yowch). Shiver me timbers. How _horrendous_. 

“Uh, ha, thanks, I guess? You too, you’ve always been super kind, too. Yeah. Mm.”

Yes, how horrendous, because he sounds like a complete moron doing so and doesn’t _want_ to but he _needs_ to. Because Mercedes deserves to be treated with sincerity, unlike a certain somebody. Still, she doesn’t seem to mind that he looks like a stupid ripening tomato, from the way her pearly teeth show as she smiles, eyes crinkling in amusement and laughter leaving her as if she were singing a pretty and humorous folk camp number. 

“You’re welcome, Sylvain, and thank you for the compliment. It was very sweet of you.”

Alright. 

He can’t _take_ this anymore! Because at this rate? He’ll _die_. Yeah, that’s right, _he’ll die._ What? Yeah? He’s going to die? Yeah! Why? Because Mercedes is _killing_ him with kindness and oh goddess, this is so embarrassing, so mortifying, and how is it that even after all these years she _still_ doesn't understand that he’s a shitty human being who—

“Oh? Is that Ingrid?” 

—who...who…?

Who did she just say was here?

Sylvain’s eyes rush to meet Mercedes’ line of sight and—

Oh. 

Oh, so she’s not dead. Okay. Nice. Cool. Very cool. 

And, uh, well, she’s not dead. 

Oh goddess.

She’s not dead. 

And oh goddess, she’s right _here_. 

Well, not right _here_ , right over _there_. At the entrance, with her short cute pixie cut frazzled and frizzled, hands grabbing a clutch purse —huh, so she finally replaced her thrift store favourite of ten years— and a gift he presumes is for Dimitri and Byleth, the beloved betrotheds of tonight’s soirée.

“Ingrid!” Sylvain yells because he can’t quite help himself because she’s right there, and laughter bubbles up his throat, warmth spreading through his skin, bones, flesh and soul because look at how adorable she is when she jolts at his call and—

And. 

She looks back. And she smiles. At a man. 

A man who returns her smile, tugging her closer to his hip by her waist, his other hand holding a gift in matching blue-green polka dot wrapping paper.

A man whose presence Sylvain never wished to acknowledge. 

Whether it was when he saw him in the background of their FaceTime calls.

Whether it was a namedrop during their texts. 

Whether it was her cutting off the phone because _he_ called.

Why is _he_ here? 

“My, I wonder who that gentleman is?”

The name is on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it down — as well as the bile.

“...Sylvain?”

“Hm? Oh, sorry.” Sylvain flashes a smile and his cheeks hurt. “That’s Claude.”

“And…?”

“He’s, well,” Sylvain bites his cheek and tastes the tang of iron. “Ingrid’s boyfriend.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” He’ll have an ulcer. It’s guaranteed. “‘Oh.’”

Sipping at his glass, Sylvain watches as Ingrid gets her bearings by the entrance. She passes her suitcase and trench coat that she definitely did not buy herself (it was a gift, wasn’t it? From _who_ , he wonders?) to the party hostess. Then, he watches as she searches the hall with a frown, brows furrowed, her hand in _his._

He almost looks away but his heart skips a beat because her eyes finally find him. 

And she smiles so brightly, so beautifully, so unknowingly, it complicates his already complicated emotional state. If he had to make a comparison, he supposes it would be similar to the feeling of receiving CPR, only to have a rib broken. You’re glad to live, but damn if that broken ribcage doesn't hurt like a _bitch._

“Sylvain!” she yells, and she looks so happy to see him, but he knows it’s not for the same reasons that he’s happy to see her. Why? Well, the evidence is right by her side, isn’t it?

And then there is Ingrid, right before him, in all of her glory.

Face-to-face, he notices the intricacies of two years passing does to a person, that a phone screen just can’t manage to capture. New freckles in places where her skin was previously untouched —it’s understandable, considering Derdriu’s summers— and lines, wrinkles, blemishes, what name you, there are new additions to the family.

These are apparently flaws. But to his eyes, she still looks ever so beautiful.

Her laugh, too, is still so bright and lovely as she jumps into his arms. He swirls her around as if they were still eight and ten years old, and not twenty-eight and thirty, and — oh gods, he’s thirty. Eck. Anyway, she still feels so light, and she still smells of her citrus shampoo that she’s employed in her service since she was in college — except not. Because there is a musky tone to her scent, overpowering the citrus.

Men’s cologne.

It’s the spicy scented kind, too. Patchouli, probably. Not his thing at all. 

Gross. 

“Oh goddess, how do you still look the same? You haven’t aged a day, and you’re _thirty.”_ Ingrid laughs, ruffling his hair as she retreats back. Meanie. 

“Hey, come on. It’s been like, what? Two years?” Sylvain knows the exact date and the exact time. He’s not going to say it, though because, well. That’s creepy. “I’m not going to grey on you yet.”

She rolls her eyes in a way that’s just so Ingrid and the familiarity clutches his heart, keeping him hostage.

Correction. He has _two_ weaknesses. 

As established, sincerity is one.

The second is Ingrid. 

“Oh, and Mercedes. It’s been so long. I didn’t know you were coming,” Ingrid says, turning to face her with a polite smile. For some reason, it seems...stiff? Huh. “Did you...come together? As a plus one?”

“Oh, no. I’m afraid I was just invited,” says Mercedes, lips formed in a smooth smile. “Byleth and I are actually quite close, after all.”

Sylvain watches how Ingrid’s face loses colour and how quickly it then burns red. His lips meet the rim of the champagne glass and he takes a slow sip. Ah, how it tastes of vicarious embarrassment with a finish of sadistic amusement. Oh, he can’t help it. It’s always a bit hilarious whenever Ingrid is flustered. 

Ingrid says, with a tone more high-pitched than usual, “Oh, of course! I hope I didn’t cause any offence! I really didn’t—”

“None taken, Ingrid,” says Mercedes, laughing softly. “I know you were just curious.”

As ever, Mercedes is the master of both passive aggressivity and genuine clemency, so despite the fact that Sylvain knows her pretty well, he has no idea which one it is. It’s kind of terrifying, in like, a ‘woah’, kind of way.

“By the way, do you mind introducing…?”

“Oh, right, let me introduce you—” Ingrid says, and steps aside to allow the man behind her to join their inner circle. “Mercedes, Sylvain, this is Claude, my boyfriend. And Claude—” 

Claude. Claude, Claude, Claude. 

He’s seen him in the background of Ingrid’s apartment, her social media posts, whatever. They’ve spoken once. A short one-minute conversation that Sylvain cut away from because ‘Felix is calling’. Felix didn’t call. Felix never calls. Yet, Ingrid didn’t care to notice his obvious white lie. She let him. 

Because she cared to spend her time with Claude von Riegan.

Claude von _fucking_ Riegan. 

“—Mercedes,” says Claude, his tone smooth and complemented by a charming smile. He offers a hand. “A pleasure to meet you.” 

Mercedes takes the offered hand, greeting him in turn with a polite smile. “ A pleasure, Claude.”

“And Sylvain.” Claude offers his hand and, well, the way that he’s looking at him? Well. It’s rude. Because Sylvain’s a smart guy, he gets body language, double-speak, subtext without context, blah blah blah. And Claude’s looking at him like he’s dissecting his brain. Rude. “It’s good to finally meet you, face-to-face.” 

Sylvain accepts the offer and— well. It’s the best handshake he’s ever had in his life. Now that is an achievement. He’s had a lot — more than he’s probably had sex, and that is, well, also a lot. No doubt Claude is similar. After all, his handshake is that of a diplomat, which, well, _is_ what he is. Like Sylvain, a fellow ambassador of political peace. But who cares?

“Likewise. I’ve heard a lot about you from Ingrid as well.” 

Sylvain assesses Claude’s expression. It is unflinching and untelling and, well, _assessing_ him in turn. Which has Sylvain feeling like a child caught in the act of stealing a cookie. So, he pulls out the same tactic he used as a child when he _was_ in that exact situation: changing the subject. 

“By the way, Ingrid, why did it take you so long?” Sylvain sighs deeply, turning his attention to her. It’s easy to do that. In fact, a lot of his focus is pretty much always on her. Which is, well, pretty damn creepy to say. “I thought you were supposed to arrive at noon. You didn’t even take my calls or messages.”

“Oh, goddess,” Ingrid groans and squeezes her eyes shut, brow-line wrinkling. “Please, let me go long story short.” 

He nods. “Long story short.” 

“Well, firstly, our plane was delayed by five hours because of some security issue,” says Ingrid, threading her hand through her hair. Which is, well, hot. Which is, well, creepy. Focus. “Then a flight attendant spills water on Claude’s phone, breaking it. And _my_ phone? It just started acting up. I could hear the calls but my screen was just unresponsive. Then—”

So, she _wasn’t_ dead. Neither was she ignoring him. Good. I mean, she wouldn’t, Ingrid would _never._ Well, she _could,_ but— focus. Focus.

“—when we arrived at Fhirdiad, our luggage takes two hours to arrive. No idea why, nor do I care anymore. Also, the taxi driver tried to scam us. Can’t believe he pegged me for a tourist. Do I really have a Leicester accent now?” 

Now, _that_ is a funny mental image. He can just imagine how Ingrid reacted, patriot that she is and damn, it is hilarious and so he is laughing— but the thing is, so is Claude. Which doesn’t feel nice. Stop laughing, you. But of course, the man isn’t psychic so he keeps at it. Wow, he is tempted to just cut his laughter right there, but nope. He won’t. He can’t, because he can’t risk Ingrid noticing and— now there is an awkward pause, because apparently he _was_ psychic, because he sure isn’t laughing anymore. Instead, he’s looking at him with a suspiciously squeaky clean smile. 

Ass. 

Thankfully, Mercedes, the angel, the saint, the wonderful superwoman, comes to his rescue.

“Oh, that sounds just awful!” Mercedes gasps, bringing her hands to her lips. “I can’t believe you had so much bad luck in just one day.”

“You tell me.” Ingrid sighs. Then, she pauses, turning to Sylvain and squinting, like a suspicious parent scrutinising their naughtiest child. 

Uh-oh.

“By the way, where’s Dimitri?” asks Ingrid, eyes leaving him and searching the hall. “I see Byleth around, but...” 

No, ‘uh-oh’. Phew. He’s _safe._

“Oh, him?” Sylvain gives a breath of laughter that almost gives away his relief. Keyword: almost. He’s a professional faker. It’s cool. “Last time I heard, he was in the toilet. The cheese didn’t sit well with him.”

Ingrid gives him a ‘look.’ A look that makes him smile because it is the ‘look’ that she’s reserved for him since childhood. “You’re kidding.”

He gives back his own ‘look’ with a grin. “You got me. He’s on the balcony with some guests.” 

“Which floor?” 

“Second.” 

“Great. I’ll see him after I greet Byleth. Need to drop off these, after all,” says Ingrid, heaving the gift nestled by her arm. “It was nice catching up. I’ll see you two around, okay?” 

Sylvain pauses. Then, he whispers, “Later?”

Ingrid grins (which does things to him, _phew_ ) before whispering back, “Of course, Sylvain.” 

And so, she trots off, his heart clutched in her unknowing hands. 

Claude throws a small smile as he looks over his shoulder. “Was good to meet you.”

Well. It wasn’t for _him_. “Likewise.” 

With that, Claude follows after Ingrid and the two venture further into the parlour.

He stares. 

He stares as they curve around the pool of people, dodging and swerving and navigating. He stares as Ingrid steps on some man’s poor feet, as she gasps, as she apologises, as Claude steps in to make use of his diplomatic abilities. He stares as they finally meet with Byleth, stares as Ingrid hugs her, as Claude watches on with a smile.

He stares because he’s a jealous fucking creep. 

“...I’m glad Ingrid seems to be doing well,” says Mercedes, interrupting his seething introspection. Which is good, because he sorely needs the distraction. “It’s been so long since I’ve last seen her, after all. Just after graduation, I believe? No, I think after...” 

Sylvain takes a sip — or rather, a half-sip because his glass is now empty. Well. That sucks.

“But you know, Sylvain, Claude reminds me of someone.” 

Instead, his gaze fixates on Ingrid laughs with Byleth, with Claude lingering around her, his hand still on her—

“You.” 

—back.

But more importantly. What did she just say?

“Me?” 

“Mmhm.” Mercedes hums as she takes a sip of her champagne. “You. I wonder why?”

“I have no idea.” Sylvain scoffs. “And I don’t know whether to feel flattered or offended by that.” 

“I don’t know either, to be honest,” says Mercedes, chuckling. “But anyway, Sylvain—”

Uh-oh. He can tell what’s coming. 

“She _still_ doesn’t know?” says Mercedes, with such gentle exasperation in her tone that an ignorant man would not realise the true snark behind her veneer. 

“Nope.” 

“Oh,” says Mercedes, giving a soft sigh and pinching her brow. _“Sylvain.”_

So, remember that thing about conversations with exes inevitably falling back to the cause of the break-up? Well, it’s holding true again, because he forgot to mention one very important fact. 

There were, in fact, _two_ reasons why Mercedes and Sylvain didn’t marry and make babies and live happily ever after.

One: Emile. 

“You really are hopeless. Even more so than Dimitri, I would think.”

Two: Ingrid.

“You know what? I think I actually agree. I mean, we’re here celebrating his engagement, not mine.” Sylvain laughs and wow, it feels like he’s choking. And Mercedes, being Mercedes, has definitely noticed that which, well, he doesn’t really want to deal with right now. 

Alright. 

Cookie tactics are in order.

“Speaking of which, I’m just gonna have a quick chat with the man of the day. See you around?” 

He’s already three steps away from her before he even finishes the sentence, but Mercedes pays no mind, calling after him with a gentle, “Of course, Sylvain.” 

Sylvain loosens his necktie and heads downstairs. 

* * *

Sylvain’s pace is quick and rhythmic as he paces down the cellar stairway. Just a few more steps and — yep. There he is. Dimitri, in all of his crouched sitting stance glory, groaning and talking to himself as he scrutinises one out of fifteen bottles.

“Goddess be damned, what _is_ wine? Why must this be so difficult? Why can’t I just— ”

Poor bastard. He’s been broken. By wine. 

Sylvain jumps the last two steps and swings by Dimitri’s side.

“Hey, Dimitri. Just need to ask you a small question. I'll be quick, promise.”

Shoulders flinching, Dimitri’s one-eyed gaze rushes to him (creepy), eye widened, posture tensed, fists clenched and damn. He’s the one who should be drinking that wine, not Jeralt.

“Hey, calm. It’s just me. Your buddy Sylvain.” 

Dimitri’s furrowed brows loosen as he lets out a breathy, long sigh, plopping the bottles atop the centre counter.

“Oh, Sylvain, thank the goddess!” says Dimitri, presenting two select bottles to Dimitri. “For the life of me, I cannot choose which wine to gift Jeralt—“

“2997 Gronder. Why is Claude here?”

“Ah, thank you! And—” Dimitri’s expression of gratitude moulds into confusion. “What do you mean? Guests are allowed to bring a plus one.” 

At that, Sylvain looks down at his feet and starts fiddling with the hairs meeting his nape. “Yeah, well, I don’t know. I was wondering why I didn’t know.” 

Dimitri pauses. Then, he blinks. He puts the bottles down on the counter. “Should I have told you, then?” 

“Well, I would’ve preferred to know, yeah. I don’t know.”

“Oh, my apologies, then.” 

Dimitri sounds and looks so confused and Sylvain doesn’t blame him one bit. Because he probably doesn’t know _why_ he’s apologising, and in all fairness, Sylvain doesn’t even know why. Why did he come here again? 

Oh, right. Because it’s easier to yell at Dimitri than it is at Ingrid. Because he can blame, deflect and rant to the former but not to the latter. 

Which is, like, super unfair and _wow-wee_ , he is a horrible friend. ‘Bros over hoes’ has always been his interpersonal relationship policy, but look at him, breaking his bro-code. Though to be fair, Ingrid does count as a ‘bro’. 

A bro who he’d loved to make a not necessarily bro, sure, but— 

“Although, I would’ve thought that Ingrid would be the one to tell you. Claude is her partner, after all.”

Partner? 

Wow. Partner? Really? As if 'boyfriend' wasn't a sickening enough title for Claude von Riegan. Partner, too. _Wow._

“Partner? Really, Dimitri? They’ve been dating for barely a year. He’s just a temporary boyfriend,” Sylvain scoffs and retreats to lean against the cellar wall. “They’ll just date for some time, then he’ll find out about Ingrid’s horse girl phase and she’ll find out, I don’t know, that he’s a Leicester government agent or something?”

“Sylvain, that is extremely rude,” says Dimitri, his tone taking on that of a stern father. “Leicester is our ally and Claude is Ingrid’s partner. You should—”

“Leicester is only our ally when it is politically convenient,” Sylvain says and the bite in his tone increases as he continues, “and again with the partner talk? Please, stop calling it that.”

“But that is how she referred to him when we last spoke.”

Sylvain freezes. What? Because, what?

Hold one. Doesn't that imply, suggest, well, something of a serious relationship?

“...Perhaps that line of thought would have been applicable when we were still students, but we’re all adults approaching our thirties,” says Dimitri, watching him. “It shouldn’t be a surprise that Ingrid is dating Claude with serious—”

He’s ill. 

_“—Boar!”_

And his eardrums are bleeding. What the hell, Felix?

Felix. Felix?

Sylvain’s head whips upward to the ceiling and he hears the thumping of heavy footsteps above them.

Oh.

Ohhhhhhhhh. 

He sucks in a breath. 

Whoops! Forgot about that. 

“Hey.” Sylvain reaches out to pat Dimitri on the shoulder. “I think you lived a semi-decent life, all things considered.”

“What do you— ” 

“Dimitri!” 

Et voila! There he is, the to-be stone-cold murderer, Felix Hugo Fraldarius. Sylvain never wished to be witness to a murder case, but hey, it’s happening. He’ll just have to deal with, and at least there’s wine. 

“Someone’s breaking out quite the sweat,” says Sylvain, whistling, backing up to give space between himself and the to-be murderer for, you know. Safety purposes. “Burned off those extra calories?” 

“You lying fuckwit,” says Felix, grabbing his collar. “Third floor? This is the fucking cellar, jackass.”

“Woah, woah! Punch him, not me,” says Sylvain, voice cracking between choked chuckles. He grasps Felix’s hand and pushes it off of him. Thankfully, there’s little resistance.

“What—Sylvain!” Dimitri scoffs, backing a few steps away with palms raised in innocence, but Sylvain sees the way his one eye instinctually eyes the empty glass bottles. How his stance shifts, readying himself for that technique they all learnt during army training. Instinct never dies.

“I’m joking. Ing—” he says, and clears his throat for a moment. Strange, it feels oddly sore. “—would maul me.” 

“Why is _she_ here?” Felix snarls, backing off Sylvain to climb into Dimitri’s personal space. 

Dimitri stares with furrowed brows. He mumbles, “Ingrid?” 

Felix hisses, “Annette.” 

Dimitri stills. Then, he scoffs. “I—you said it was okay. I asked you.” 

Felix freezes. 

Sylvain looks from the sidelines and wow. Look at this. A slack-jawed Felix. Such a rare sight. Popcorn, please. Wine, too. 

Unfortunately, Felix readily recovers and spits back with his previous fury. “When the hell did I ever—”

“— Two months ago, at around eight o’clock at night. I called you and asked. You said, “Did you seriously call me just for this? Do what you want, bye.” And then you hung up!”

Oh, so _that’s_ what he said. Way more in character than his paraphrase. So yeah, that was it. 

Felix pauses. 

Thirty seconds of silence pass by which makes Sylvain itchy. So, he clears his throat, tugging his tie, and attempts to break the silence. 

“Uh, you know, guys—” 

“I was _drunk_ !” Felix yells, with such confidence and frustration that it almost makes Sylvain go _‘Ohhh!’_ in recognition of his argument.

Except it doesn’t because that’s an excuse, not a reason.

And Dimitri seems to agree also, from the way his head is shaking left to right, accompanied by a heavy sigh.

“Felix,” he begins. “How was I supposed to know that?”

“You seriously can’t tell a drunk man from a sober one?” Felix scoffs, shaking his head. “Unbelievable.” 

“To be fair, Felix, when you’re drunk, you’re just cranky.” Sylvain shrugs his shoulders. “Which is your default.” 

“This is ridiculous.” Dimitri sighs, pinching the middle of his brows. “First of all—” Dimitri puts his full weight against the counter and looks to Felix with a pointed glare. “Felix, you said you were over Annette years ago!” 

“I— ”

“And Sylvain, you too!” Dimitri groans, turning to face Sylvain. “I thought you didn’t have feelings for Ingrid anymore!”

Well, he _does_ — 

Felix shouts, “I’m not!”

Sylvain raises his hands, sighing, before exclaiming, “Well, I do!”

“What is going on here?”

Uh oh. 

Sylvain’s heart seizes. He whips around to see Ingrid on the staircase, still carrying her gift. 

Oh. Oh no. Not like this. Not when he stands absolutely no chance. He doesn’t— 

“It’s nothing.” Felix grunts and looks to the side, as if he had no part in this. Ass. “Leave.” 

“No, I will not.” Ingrid glares. She begins her descent. “I could hear you shouting from upstairs, Felix.”

“Oh.” Dimitri blinks. “What...exactly did you hear then, Ingrid?”

He’s asking for his sake, he knows. Dimitri’s just that kind of guy. Plus, he’s making it fairly obvious with how his one eye is glancing over to him every three microseconds. 

Now, Sylvain _would_ be grateful but honestly? He’s too lightheaded to feel anything _other_ than putrid panic. Yeah. This is even worse than the time Gwendal nearly found him in his daughter’s bed. Yeah. Ten times worse. A _hundred_ times worse — because it’s about _Ingrid_ and _Sylvain_ , and he’s never spoken about _him_ and _her_ to, well, her. 

“Look. I didn’t hear what you were yelling about,” says Ingrid, now fully descended from the stairs and marching towards them. “But I heard the shouting, and I _will_ find out why.”

Sylvain lets out a deep, deep breath and whispers to the ceiling, “Thank the Goddess,” because he can still bullshit his way out of this. He is a master-bullshitter, by the way. He can do this. He. Can. Do. _This._

To his luck, however, Ingrid catches his whispered praises to the Mother Above and glares his way. 

Alright.

So. 

He needs to get the hell out of here. 

“Well! You guys should catch up! It’s been so long after all!” Sylvain grins widely, walking to the exit and dragging Felix by his bicep. “Alright, we’ll leave you two alone. Come on, Felix! We’ve got some celebrating to do.” 

“Oh no you don’t, Sylvain Jose Gautier.” Ingrid points at him with its finely filed tip. Her nails are done, and the colour looks beautiful on her. Jade green, glinting in low light. “Stay. Here.”

But this is _not_ the time to admire a finely done job of manicure — he needs to _bounce,_ damn it!

But before that, Sylvain gives Dimitri a smile. A smile Sylvain knows that even Dimitri, thickheaded as he could be, would know the true meaning of:

_Help._

“Ingrid,” Dimitri whispers, giving her the ‘Dimitri’ look. AKA: ‘I will make you feel guilty’ look. “Please, at another time.”

“...Oh,” Ingrid mutters, hugging the gift closer to her body. “Okay, but you have to tell me later. Can you promise that?” 

At the same time, Sylvain mouths to Dimitri: 

_Do. Not. Tell. Ingrid._

_You. Do. You. Die._

Dimitri’s smile twitches as he says to Ingrid, “Promise.” 

Sylvain salutes his fellow man.

Then, grabbing Felix by the arm and dragging him alongside him, Sylvain rushes up the cellar staircase. 

Because he is _out of here!_

* * *

Ingrid watches the two leave, fiddling with her necklace. Then, she turns to face Dimitri, who lets out a long and meaningful sigh. 

She frowns. “Is everything alright?”

“I’m sorry about that, Ingrid. I swear, I will tell you later. After the party, actually. Now is just terrible timing.” 

“Of course. Out of you three, I trust your judgement the most,” Ingrid says. “Plus, it’s your big day. I won’t let my stubbornness ruin it.” 

Dimitri smiles. “Thank you, Ingrid. You’re truly a good friend.” 

In turn, Ingrid gives him a gentle affectionate smile and reaches out to squeeze his hand. After a moment, however, her smile changes into a firm line and she looks to the side with the twist of her pinky ring. 

“So, uh, Dimitri,” Ingrid says, gaze, not meeting him. “Why is Mercedes —and Annette— here?” 

A revelation of sorts hits Dimitri, and his eyes glaze over as he stares at his old friend. 

“Ingrid,” he says. 

She looks up at him. 

“I may have made a huge mistake.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Relevant minor relationships:
> 
> past Annette/Felix (But it's complicated.)
> 
> past Sylvain/Mercedes
> 
> minor Dorothea/Felix (But it's complicated.)
> 
> past Dorothea/Ferdinand
> 
> minor Mercedes/Dedue
> 
> mentioned Petra/Ashe
> 
> This is the least spoilery that I can get. In the grand scheme of things, there are more minor relationships, but that is not relevant for this fic.


	2. Can the Red Wine in Beef Bourguignon Cause Heart Flutters?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ingrid knows when someone is lying. 
> 
> This skill proves amplified in regard to her childhood friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As of the time this has been posted, Chapter 1 has been beta'd! I recommend to have a quick glimpse if anything confused you in Chapter 1. Things are more explicit now.
> 
> Also, there was someone who commented on Chapter 1, but for some reason it's not there anymore. I never got to reply, so here it is!
> 
> I AM GLAD YOU'RE OBSESSED MY DEAR
> 
> EDIT: Mobile readers, I recommend hiding comments as you're reading cause I went WILD with the gifs in the comments so your formatting may look a little odd.

“I may have made a huge mistake.”

Ingrid pauses, taking a moment to process Dimitri’s words. 

Ever since they were children, Dimitri was always the most sensible one out of the boys. Which, well, wasn’t saying much considering his competition. The difference with Dimitri’s  _ ‘I’m in trouble’ _ , however, was that it usually meant something near catastrophic, not just a scuffle with authority or with vindictive ex-girlfriends, as was it for Felix and Sylvain during their younger years. 

Five years ago, for example. When  _ that _ happened. She does not want a repeat of  _ that _ . 

So, his words come as alarming to Ingrid. 

Despite herself, her voice has a slight tremble as she replies, “What do you mean? Did something happen?”

“I—“ Dimitri’s eyes flicker to the side and remain there. He rubs at his nape, fingers fiddling with the ends of his blonde locks. “—can’t truly tell you.” 

“Is it anything serious?” says Ingrid. She pauses, her tongue flicking across her lips before she whispers, “Say, legally?” 

“What—oh. No, Ingrid,” says Dimitri. His expression moulds from one of narrowed eyes and pursed lips to shameful avoidance of her gaze, recognising the implications behind her words. He continues, eyes still looking down at his shuffling feet. “Gladly, it’s nothing of the sort.” 

Ingrid frowns and takes some time to think. The two of them have always had a good sense of boundaries. With Dimitri, she knows when to push, and when to not. 

Today, however, her gut is telling her to go for the former. 

“Dimitri,” she says, gently grasping both of his shoulders. She cranes her head to the side and smiles softly. “You know that you can trust me with anything.” 

Dimitri lets out a heavy sigh, and clasps his hands over hers. He then brings her hands down, but continues to cradle them. Ingrid feels the cracks and calluses of her friend’s hands, and her mind drifts to their childhood, when his hands were so much softer than hers. It is a bittersweet thought. 

His eyes don’t quite meet hers as he says, “It’s—this doesn’t concern myself. It concerns others. So, I don’t truly have the right to discuss it.”

Ingrid has her  _ a-ha _ moment. Obviously, it’s—

“Felix and Sylvain.”

She sighs. Of course. She nearly lost track of what they were talking about in the first place. Rascals yelling at a man at his own celebration. Ingrid writes a mental reminder: remember to lecture the two idiots. 

Ingrid then looks over to Dimitri, and watches how his hands struggle to find something to fidget with —his nape, his ring, whatever— before he finally settles on crossing his arms. 

He is entirely too obvious. 

She stares. He looks away, then directs his eyes at his dress shoes. 

“Perhaps they are involved,” says Dimitri, with an uneven cadence. He gulps. “Rather than that, however, it’s more broad. I may have made a mistake with conflicts of interest—“

“—Annette and Mercedes.” 

Dimitri pauses and Ingrid shakes her head with a grin. She’s got him. 

Ingrid huffs, placing her hands on her hips. “Look. You can try, but you’re a terrible liar and I’m a lawyer.”

In response, Dimitri stares at Ingrid. She pauses also, squinting her eyes. Ingrid opens her mouth to speak, but is interrupted by Dimitri’s next words.

“Of course,” he says, with a smile. “You’re as right as ever, Ingrid.”

His smile has strain to it that tells her everything – like the fact that he isn’t telling her everything. Still, she can tell there’s at least some truth to it –– and she  _ will _ find it. But right now she'll just make do with the information she currently has. She'll break his bluff. Dimitri always crumbles under pressure. 

And so, Ingrid then twists away from him, leaning her body weight against the centre counter with crossed arms, and sighs. 

“I should’ve known. I mean, when I saw Annette around but no sign of Felix, I connected two and two,” says Ingrid, and she glances at Dimitri. Decreased fiddling, stable eye contact. His expression is honest. She continues, “When I saw Sylvain and Mercedes together, I’ll admit, I was a bit surprised. He was doing so well, after all...but I wonder.” 

Ingrid watches Dimitri and witnesses the change in body language at her discussion of Sylvain. Eyes looking but not looking, a pleasant yet uneasy smile, fingers twitching again — settling for a source of comfort, his engagement ring, unable to bluff the instinct away. After all, she was the one to inform him of this telling habit of his. 

“But now that I think of it, he  _ was _ acting a bit oddly around her,” says Ingrid, pausing for a moment to search for the words. Her teeth pull at her bottom lip and she begins to tap her nails against the counter. She cocks her head to look at Dimitri. Her gaze is steady. His is not. “Did you happen to see him around her tonight?

Dimitri shakes his head, blinking too much. “I’m afraid not.” 

“I see,” she says, unfolding her arms to examine her nails. She then looks to Dimitri and gives a pointed glare. She sees as his Cichol's apple moves down his throat in a gulp. “You didn’t answer my question from earlier, by the way. Why  _ did _ you invite Mercedes and Annette? I know they’re close with Byleth, but you know their history.” 

“Both Sylvain and Felix gave their consent to their presence,” says Dimitri, as he closes his eyes and rubs at his nape. His eyes flutter open and he glimpses to the side. “Felix, however, turned out to be—" he licks his lips before continuing, "––unqualified to represent himself, let’s say.” 

She sighs, because she knows what that means. Alcohol. “And Sylvain?”

Dimitri looks down, tugging at his cufflinks. “I would say he seemed rather fine with the idea.” 

‘Fine'.

If he were fine, then what was that odd tension in his words and movements? His stilted laughter? The way his eyes didn’t quite meet hers, and how it often drifted to Mercedes?

Ingrid flinches as she feels a sharp sting of pain. She licks her lips, and tastes a metallic tang of iron. Weird. Note to self: remember to check her lipstick and reapply if necessary. 

“Well, it’s good to know that you asked,” says Ingrid. She goes quiet for a moment, before she rubs her face with her hand, sighing. “Still, I just hope he’s doing alright. It must be hard for him, even after all this time.”

Some time passes before Dimitri’s reply comes. He simply mutters, “Indeed.” 

That settles it. Dimitri is hiding something from her –– and it is most certainly about Sylvain and Mercedes. 

Now she just has to get it out of him. 

Ingrid bounces her weight back from the counter and faces Dimitri, hands on hips. With a smile, she says, “You know what, I’ll go talk to him about this. He needs my support.”

With that, Ingrid turns on her heel, purpose in her step, but is stopped by Dimitri’s light tug on her shoulder. 

She smiles, despite herself. This is too easy. Ingrid turns back to face Dimitri, who greets her with a fragile smile, and she sees how it falters under her inquisitive gaze. He doesn’t drop the act, however, although he does return to fiddling his ring as he lets go of her shoulder. 

He says, twisting the ring to up and down his finger, “Oh, I’m not sure if that’s truly necessary.” 

One of her heels is still floating above the ground, mid-movement. Ingrid then releases the tension, allowing her foot to land on the cellar concrete. 

She turns to face Dimitri fully and whispers, “And why is that?” He looks away. Ingrid clicks her tongue, shakes her head and steps closer into his space. “Dimitri,” she says, “I know you’re trying to cover up for Sylvain.” 

In response, Dimitri laughs a laugh entirely too high-pitched coming from him, and says, “Oh, Ingrid. Why would I ever cover up for Sylvain? Sylvain, of all people!”

“Because,” she says, in a soft voice, as she grasps for his hands, “you’re such a good friend.” 

At that, Dimitri’s face drops. There it is— his guilty face, in all of its glory. Honestly, the sight makes her feel almost guilty, but she can’t stop her obsessive thirst for answers. It's too late to stop. Dimitri knows this too. Which is why she isn’t surprised when she sees how the tension releases from his body as he gives a deep, resigned exhale. 

“...Then let me just say one thing,” says Dimitri, his hands sleuthing away from hers. He places one hand on the counter and the other rests in his pocket. “Let’s say that it was Mercedes’ presence that had upset Sylvain. Perhaps that is why he was yelling at me. But let’s consider the fact that when he visited her in Enbarr last year, he came back fine.” 

She freezes. 

What?

Dimitri freezes also. He then says, “You didn’t know?” 

Ingrid looks to the side. She leans against the counter. 

What? 

Sylvain? 

Mercedes? 

_ Enbarr?  _

She revises the folders in her brain, sorting through legal jargon, memories of university, to settle on:  _ recent conversations with Sylvain. _ She draws a blank. There is nothing in her memory bank regarding such a thing.

Dimitri sputters as he says, “I, uh, I hadn’t thought that Sylvain didn’t tell you—“

Her voice is a whisper as she interrupts him.

“—Why didn’t I know, Dimitri?” says Ingrid. She doesn’t hear a response. So, she continues, “I mean, I nursed him through that breakup, and we’re friends, right? So he would tell me, right?”

The memory of it all is still so vivid. His apartment, with the dozens of empty vodka bottles, the piles of laundry, and—

_ (the used condoms, countless cigarette packs that should not have been there, smell of women’s perfume) _

—the empty fridge.

He wouldn’t eat, he wouldn’t sleep, he wouldn’t even take her calls or return her texts. For that moment, Ingrid hated Mercedes. Even though Ingrid had no right, and even though it wasn’t truly Mercedes’ fault. 

Still, she hated her for him. 

Because she knew that he couldn't hate her. 

“Sometimes, people need time and privacy,” says Dimitri, as he steps closer into her space, hand reaching out for hers. 

She moves back. He doesn’t follow.

“Well, you knew, didn’t you?” Ingrid scoffs, then biting a nail. She tries to stop —manicure is so overpriced, after all— but then another realisation hits her and gods, she can't stop now. “And I bet Felix does too. Asshole!” 

“Well—” Dimitri takes a short breath in, his tongue clearly searching for the right words. Having settled on his next words, maybe prematurely, he continues, “—perhaps Sylvain finds it easier to discuss such things with the same sex.” 

"Oh, really?” Ingrid laughs. What a hysterical suggestion. Sylvain? Not comfortable with talking to her about girl problems? Ingrid pulls at her necklace. The pearls stretch along the necklace rope. “If that was the case, then what were the twenty percent of conversations we’ve ever had in over twenty years of friendship actually about?” 

“Ingrid, I truly believe that you should—“

She bites back. “I won’t calm down, if that’s what you’re—”

Dimitri groans. “—Oh for gods’ sake, why does this matter?” 

The words cut through her like a freshly sharpened cleaver. The clarity is enough for her to come to a realisation.

“Because—” her tongue struggles to find the right words, and so she lands on, “—it doesn’t.” 

The clarity is amplified with her statement and she comes to another realisation. 

Oh goddess. She’s yelling at Dimitri. At his engagement party. On his birthday.

She’s a damn hypocrite. 

She sighs. “Gods, I’m so sorry. You don’t deserve to hear all of this, today of all days.” 

“It’s alright, Ingrid. I can understand how this could upset you,” says Dimitri, gently grasping her shoulder.

“Still, I—” she says, and her hands flop to her side. “It’s just that he worries me so much. He was so in love, I never saw him like that, and never since has he…” 

Ingrid pauses.  _ Has _ he ever fallen in love again? 

“Ingrid. Do you—”

She raises her gaze to meet his.

“—still have feelings for Sylvain?” 

Ingrid’s eyes fixate on Dimitri. She feels a numb haze overcome her. 

_ “Ingrid,” he says, and his smile is so genuine and him that she can’t help but just stare. “Thank you for being here. For always being here.”  _

_ Her head feels so light that she almost— _

Her head hurts.

“...Ingrid?”

“...Of course not,” she whispers. Ingrid looks to Dimitri, and the sound of her voice is so weak that she feels a hot flash of anger. “I’m with Claude. How could you say that?”

“I—” says Dimitri. He then looks down. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me. To you and to Claude.”

They stand in silence, and Ingrid’s mind is blank, and it must keep being blank, otherwise she’ll—

She has to leave.

Ingrid’s eyes catch the box of confections on the counter. She doesn’t remember when she put it there, but she is glad nonetheless for the convenient excuse, as she snatches the gift and shoves it into Dimitri's hands. “Here, your present,” she says. She doesn't look at him, because Dimitri’s expression is always too honest. She doesn’t want to know. “Happy birthday and engagement.” 

Ignoring Dimitri’s call for her, Ingrid turns around and rushes up the cellar staircase — and winces as she feels a soft  _ thud _ . Ingrid's eyes rush to meet the source, feeling her heart thumping in her ears, and she hopes,  _ please don’t be— _

Before her is Byleth. Ingrid sighs. The woman of the day steps aside, and Ingrid marches for the cellar exit. The door clangs shut. 

Byleth stares after Ingrid, before redirecting her gaze to Dimitri. She says, “Did something happen?” 

A revelation hits Dimitri. He stares at his fiancée. 

“Beloved,” he says. 

She looks down at him from the stairwell. 

“I’ve made a huge mistake.” 

* * *

Ingrid’s feet carry her to the hallway.

_ Ingrid, _

She climbs up the short staircase.

_ Do you still— _

Then, her ears are greeted by the background noise typical of a party. Small talk, the clinging of champagne glasses, the gentle lull of music.

— _ have feelings for— _

And when she turns a sharp right, she sees—

— _ Sylvain? _

“Hey there." Sylvain's smile is sheepish as he watches her. He raises a plate, topped with food. “Saved some for you. Last piece of the beef bourguignon.”

Ingrid remains where she is. She stares.

“Uh, Ingrid?” Sylvain's uneasy smile twists into a frown. “You alright there?”

_ (Be normal.) _

“I’m fine. Sorry,” she says. Ingrid walks over and settles beside him, taking the plate of beef bourguignon. Their fingers touch. She flinches.

“Thanks,” she says.

_ (Be. Normal.) _

She stabs at the plate with her fork and takes one, small bite. Despite herself, she releases a hum of contentment, and the second bite is a large, large mouthful.

_ (Normal.) _

The fork returns with vigour and she pierces through the beef, directing it to her mouth. It doesn’t matter that it’s cold. It’s beef bourguignon. A staple of her grandmother’s cooking, the cure of stress and trauma, by way of its succulence, its savoury taste, its  _ umami. _

_ (Good.) _

Truly, a dish from the heavens.

Yet, she cannot truly indulge in her conquering of the dish. Sylvain is watching, and his gaze is as heavy and as noticeable as that time that he, Felix and Dimitri all stockpiled on her lap, at her tenth birthday party.

“So, uh. You sure took your time with Dimitri,” he says, and she feels his gaze drift away from her.

Ingrid can hear the tension in his voice. Its cadence is irregular, and he stutters at the same places he does whenever he is nervous. She knows his tics and tells. How long has she known him, after all?

He then says, “What did you talk about—”

Her fork clatters down on her plate.

“—Why didn’t you tell me?” Ingrid says, her voice quiet yet harsh. She puts her plate down on the neighbouring hall table before twisting her body towards him. She meets his startled, widened eyes with her fury-stricken glare. “I thought we were friends.”

‘Be normal?’ What a ridiculous mantra. How could she be? Not when her head is so cloudy that she can’t think straight, not when her stomach is so queasy that she feels like hurling, not when—

Sylvain is looking at her, and the strange sense of absence and secrecy in his eyes is gone. Ingrid feels her heart flutter, and wonders if the red wine in the beef bourguignon is already taking effect. Weird. Her alcohol tolerance is better than most.

He whispers, “...He told you?”

The tone in his voice makes her pause. Then, she gives a slow, tentative nod.

The colour from Sylvain’s face vanishes. His mouth opens slightly and slowly, before his head whips around to the hallway leading to the cellar. His expression twists from one of shock to anger. It is paired with a clenched jaw, a heaving chest and fleeting glances from her to the hallway leading to the cellar.

“Damn it, Dimitri, what the—”

“—Why don’t you want me to know about Mercedes, anyway?” she says, grabbing his wrist to prevent him from rushing down the hallway to confront Dimitri. Enough people have yelled at the poor man tonight. Including herself. Eyes seeking his, she continues, “I thought that of all people, I would be the first one to know.”

Sylvain pauses. Then, he mumbles, “Mercedes?”

Ingrid nods.

The heat from his hand seems to cool down and he regards her with a steady stare. “What about her?”

Ingrid takes away her hand. Her eyes don’t meet his as she says, “You met up with her last year. In Enbarr?”

“Oh. That,” says Sylvain, and he looks away. His now unoccupied hand travels to his suit jacket pocket to fiddle with something. Probably his phone. Maybe his handkerchief. Whatever. He continues, “Sorry, I...forgot to tell you about that. I didn’t mean to—“

“—Sylvain,” says Ingrid, and she flinches, gulping down her own words.

It hurts — to hear her own voice, so weak and pathetic. It hurts to maintain her eye-contact, because when he looks at her like she is a helpless victim and he's the evil perpetrator, it feels like he feels her pain.

Somehow, along the course of their twenty-four years of friendship, her pain became his, and his guilt became hers.

“Imagine this. Your best friend has his heart torn out by someone he loves, to the extent that he won’t even take care of himself. So, you go be there for him. You stay there the whole time, sacrificing parts of your own life for him. Your friend recovers. All seems well. But then,” says Ingrid, and she grimaces when she hears her voice crack. Ugh, get it together. “You find out that your friend doesn’t even have the courtesy to tell you that he went to see his ex again. That after reassuring you that he was over her, he still harboured feelings and—”

Ingrid stops as Sylvain’s expression twists from one of guilt to confusion. Hers, in turn, twists from one of hurt to a similar confusion.

Sylvain's head knocks over to the side. “Hold on. You think I went to Enbarr to see Mercedes?”

She pauses. “You didn’t?”

“No, I went for work reasons. A summit for Faerghus-Adrestia relations. You can ask my father about it,” says Sylvain, as he shakes his head. “As for Mercedes, we just talked and drank coffee. It was sudden, really, but still. I understand why you would have wanted to know about that. After all, that was the first time I had seen her in years.”

Ingrid takes a moment to process the information. “So you’re really over Mercedes?”

“Yes,” says Sylvain, sighing as he adjusts his cufflinks, “and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Enbarr. I guess, because I was already over it all, I didn’t think to mention it. Still, it was important to tell you.”

Ingrid looks down to her feet. “Oh.”

She pauses, then opens her mouth to offer a begrudging apology. It hurts to admit when she’s wrong, but she — pauses again.

Rewind. Something is  _ off. _

Ingrid squints, and she catches Sylvain’s gulp.

Radar: alarmed.

“Hold on a second. Then what were you and Felix yelling about? I already know it had to do with the invites,” she says, and watches how his smile falters. She glares. “You had a problem with one of the guests, right? If it wasn’t Mercedes, then who?”

Sylvain freezes and his eyes go to his shoes. After a moment, he looks at her and opens his mouth to speak.

“Don’t. Lie.”

Sylvain holds her stare, but after a few more moments of pressure, his mouth closes and he bites his bottom lip.

He mutters, “It was Claude.”

Ingrid blanks.

Claude. Claude?

She says, “Elaborate.”

Sylvain’s eyes continue to bore into the marble flooring. Ingrid frowns and reaches out to hold his hand. She grips it and he gives her a short glance.

“Because we’re friends, yeah? I would’ve liked to know in advance that you were going to introduce your boyfriend to us,” he says, an unfamiliar smile on his face. She doesn’t quite know how to classify it. He then says, his lip slightly tugging downwards, “Cause. You know. It seems kind of important.”

Ingrid runs through her memory bank.  _ Recent conversations with Sylvain _ — and finds no recent mentions of Claude. Especially in regard to him coming to the party.

She feels the warmth leave her face.

Oh goddess.

“That’s— I’m so sorry. I didn’t, did I?” says Ingrid, and she feels that awful sense of guilt and panic returning, now overtaking her. “It was last minute. I was supposed to go alone, but then Claude asked me if he could come literally a week before, and I had a lot of end of year settlements to take care of for work, so—”

Ingrid presses a palm against her forehead and sighs. Excuse after excuse. Such hypocrisy. She is at fault. There is no denying this.

She says, “I’m sorry. Those are excuses. I had plenty of time to just send you a text, but I didn’t. That was my bad.”

“No, it’s alright,” says Sylvain, as he rubs his nape. He then releases a heavy sigh. “Heck, I had a year to tell you about Mercedes, but I didn’t, so.”

Ingrid smiles, and she reaches out to nudge Sylvain’s shoulder — but then she senses something. Something that is not quite right in his testimony.

Radar: alarmed yet again.

“Hold on, but why did you yell to Dimitri about that?” says Ingrid, pursing her lips and scrunching her brows. “Surely, if you were going to yell at someone, it would be me.”

His smile drops.

Oh goddess. Not again.

“Sylvain,” says Ingrid, and she tries to keep her tone as even and fair as possible. Which proves to be an instrumentally difficult task, because Sylvain is still lying to her. “What are you hiding from me?”

Sylvain shuffles his feet and slowly raises his gaze to observe the foyer. She continues to stare at him, and his fidgeting worsens. She bites back a small smile. It’s always a bit cute when he does that — but now is not the time.

This is business.

Sylvain is still lying to her. This will not do.

After a moment, Ingrid crosses her arms and says, “Will it help if I promise that I won’t yell at you?”

As she expected, that raises a reaction out of him, as his gaze returns with an amused smile. “You sure you can keep your word on that?”

Ingrid pauses. “Honestly? No. But I’ll try.”

He gives a small huff of laughter.

“Okay. So, you were right,” says Sylvain, and yet again, he is wearing that strange, undecipherable smile. “The Claude thing bothered me, but uh, I was yelling about Mercedes. So yeah, maybe I’m still not over her.”

Despite herself, Ingrid cannot help but feel a hot flash of anger crawl over her skin, and the deep sinking feeling of disappointment settle in her stomach.

So, he lied to her. Again. Ingrid doesn’t know what she expected. He always lies. Her hand forms into a fist, but after a moment, she loosens it. Instead, she reaches out to grasp his shoulder, nudging him to meet her eyes.

“Sylvain. Just tell me these things,” says Ingrid, as she forcibly softens her tone. She doesn’t succeed as much as she’d hoped, but the tension in his shoulders loosen nonetheless. “You don’t have to lie. We’re friends.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry,” he says, his eyes looking at her. She meets his gaze, but then he tears his eyes away, to face the foyer littered with guests.

Ingrid frowns as she sees how the guilt twists his expression. He should feel guilty, sure, but she's never enjoyed that expression. After all, she'd rather feel pride, not disappointment.

“It’s okay, Sylvain. I’m sorry too,” says Ingrid, and she reaches out for his hand. He flinches, and she pulls away, but he then grabs it back. She blinks.

“Yeah,” says Sylvain, and he offers a boyish smile that reminds her of their childhood. There is a moment before his next words. “Hug it out?”

“Oh goddess,” says Ingrid. She groans, and her hand detaches from his hand —did he tug back?— and crosses her arms. “We’re not eight and ten again, making up after you stole from my St. Cichol cookie jar.”

The memory is a bittersweet one. At the time, she would’ve described the event as traumatic. Finding Sylvain and his grubby little hands inside her cookie jar meant for St. Cichol, crumbs all over his face, then having the gall to say  _ ‘You know he doesn’t actually come to houses and eat cookies, right? I was doing you a favour.’ _

Ass.

Her reminiscence is cut off by Sylvain’s sharp bark of laughter. Ingrid glances to her side, and sees how his eyes crinkle and how his dimples show. She smiles too.

Flicking a teardrop away from his cheek, Sylvain battles through his remaining reserves of laughter, before turning around to face her.

“Good times. I still remember how Felix bawled when I said he didn’t exist. Which was pretty damn blasphemous of kid me, thinking back now.”

“Oh, goddess. He was so  _ cute, _ once upon a time,” says Ingrid, laughing also. “Would you happen to know what happened to him?”

An image of a boy of fifteen years old flashes through Ingrid’s memory. She represses her grimace, and her eyes flicker to Sylvain’s face, expression still relaxed and amused. Good.

“No clue. Puberty?” he says, chuckling. He then redirects his gaze to her and gives a wink.

Ingrid hasn’t seen that particular brand of wink since their university days. She shivers, and makes a show of it.

He laughs, but continues nonetheless. “Anyway, we’re thirty and twenty-eight now, so if making up via hugging it out won’t cut it—“ his teeth show as his lips form a grin,“—we could make out instead?”

She freezes.

_ Ingrid, _

He does too.

_ Do you still— _

“Oh, uh, please don’t look so horrified. I was just joking, so...”

_ —have feelings for— _

Sylvain gives a deliberate wink, even worse than before. “Unless—“

The shivers it gives her is enough to snap her out of it. “Ugh, gross!”

She smacks him on the arm. It’s not too strong, but it’s certainly not light, either.

Sylvain yelps, grasping his shoulder. “Ouch!”

Ingrid rolls her eyes. He can handle it. There is a small hint of a smile on her lips. She says, with a small snort, “You are deplorable.”

“And  _ you _ are humourless." Sylvain continues to cradle his shoulder. He mumbles, “A humourless demon.”

“Aw, did it hurt, big boy?” says Ingrid, her voice saccharine sweet as her fingers travel up his arm to grasp his shoulder. She resists a laugh as she sees how Sylvain grimaces and flinches away. “Want me to kiss it better for you?”

Sylvain’s eyes widen. Ingrid’s does too. Oh goddess. Not  _ this _ again.

Ingrid rubs at her arm and looks to the side. She mutters, “I was joking.”

“Right. Yeah, of course,” says Sylvain, clearing his throat. He then loosens his necktie. A few moments of silence by them before Sylvain finally says, “Oh, uh, by the way, are you still coming to the St. Cichol party?” 

The question is an odd one. The St. Cichol party is a tradition of their small group, and Ingrid never misses the chance to attend for two reasons. One: the chance to gorge on delicious cookies and delicious fish. Two: to be with her friends. In that order. Nonetheless, she is glad for the change of topic, as this year’s party will. Be.  _ Amazing. _

“Of course!” squeals Ingrid, and she giggles. Giggles. Her. She also hops a little. She just can’t help it. “ _ Dedue’s _ hosting it, Sylvain! Do you think I would ever miss a chance to eat his cooking? Those addicting Duscurian spicy dango, and that delicious, delicious sweet and salty whitefish sautée? Yum!”

The Duscurian spicy dango. She still remembers the first day she ate it. Continental Year 3019, 5th of the Horsebow Moon. Place of consumption: Ashe and Dedue’s shared apartment. Taste: piquant in the manner of hot and spicy, the dough, a perfect balance of chewiness and crisp, and the filling — tart  _ perfection. _

Sylvain’s eyes crinkle as he watches her, joining her chorus of giggles with his own collection of warm chuckles. He says, “Ingrid! You’ll get to eat so much food!”

Ingrid nods. Her cheeks hurt. “I know!”

All this talk about food awakens something in Ingrid. Her stomach growls and she feels a dryness to her mouth. She needs to eat. Now.

Sylvain’s eyes travel to the foyer. He says, “l assume Claude is coming too?”

Ingrid’s abandoned plate of beef bourguignon catches her eye again. Her stomach rumbles. She snatches it and takes a thoughtful mouthful. “Yep,” she says, smacking her lips as she licks away the sauce from her lips. Mm. Yeah, this is still pretty darn delicious.

“Gotcha,” says Sylvain. “Felix isn’t coming, by the way. Can’t be bothered."

Ingrid shrugs her shoulders. His loss.

Sylvain continues, his fingers now taking count. “Dorothea can’t come either, she’ll be singing for the St. Cichol charity carols. Wait, so how many...?”

Ingrid takes another bite. Right. Dorothea had mentioned that. She takes a mental note: donate to Dorothea’s charity event.

“So, us, Claude, Dedue, Byleth and Dimitri,” says Sylvain, and his fingers stop counting. He nods. “Six in total, then.”

Ingrid freezes mid-bite.

Oh, goddess. Dimitri.

She swallows her forkful, and then gives a sigh. “Goddess, I have to go apologise to Dimitri.”

Sylvain frowns. “What? You two had a fight?”

She shuts her eyes closed and gives a small groan. “More like I yelled at him one-sidedly.”

Sylvain grasps her shoulder and laughs in her face. His grin is victorious and aggravating. “Hey! Welcome to the club!”

“I would like to leave that club,” she says, shaking her head. Her head twists towards the cellar, and her feet turn to begin her march. “We should go apologise.”

But then, she feels a hand grasp her wrist. She twists her head back, and waits for Sylvain to explain himself. “In a bit,” he says, with a small smile. “He’ll come out soon, anyway. We should catch up. It’s been awhile, after all.”

She considers his argument. Then, she nods. “True.”

His eyes glimpse to her lips, then to her plate. Sylvain laughs, eyes crinkling and dimples showing yet again.

“Plus, you should probably finish that first.”

She glares, but lets Sylvain pull her back towards him.

She lands by his side, and smiles.

This will be a good night.

* * *

As all parties eventually do, the engagement celebrations of Dimitri and Byleth come to an end, with the majority of guests having taken their leave. The caterers busy themselves with the post-party clean-up while the musicians pack up their instruments, and the gentle lull of music and chatter ceases. Now, it is replaced with the quiet of the night and the movement of hired equipment. 

It is the supposed end of a long night, and yet Ingrid is still present. She is sitting on the chaise lounge by the entryway, with her two-inch heels tapping against the marble flooring, creating a crescendo of clicks and clacks. 

Where  _ is _ he? 

Her hand itches for her phone in her purse. It is a futile effort, however, considering how it’s still broken. She needs to bring it in for repair. Gods, how much will that cost?

Suddenly, she feels the cushion of the chaise lounge sink, and Ingrid glances to her side to find Byleth. 

“Do you want me to go grab him?” says Byleth. Her gaze is cool as ever, but the hand on Ingrid’s shoulder suggests sympathy. “I could drive you back to the hotel, if you want.”

Ingrid musters up a smile, and meets her hand with a gentle squeeze. “No, it’s okay. It’s a short walk and you’ve had alcohol.”

At that, Byleth nods and simply stares at the near empty foyer. She doesn’t move, opting to stay by Ingrid’s side in quiet solidarity. They enjoy a comfortable silence, with Ingrid letting her eyes flutter shut, and her head rests against the wall. 

Ingrid wonders when it became so easy to enjoy Byleth’s stoicism. Before, back in her university years, she had found her unnerving. An assessment Dimitri had shared, once upon a time. To think, all these years later, they would be engaged. 

Truly, life never fails to surprise her.

“Sorry. I made you wait, didn’t I?” 

Ingrid’s ears peak up in response to that familiar, buttery-smooth voice. Slowly, ever so slowly, she opens her eyes and glares. Ingrid hopes that, despite her lack of energy, she still manages to channel her inner demonic beast in the form of her glare. 

By the way of Claude’s cheeky smile, Ingrid knows he got the message. 

“I made you wait, I know. Sorry,” says Claude, with a warm chuckle. “There were just some truly fascinating people. I couldn’t resist.”

Ingrid stands up, her brow raised as she takes his hand in hers. Claude grins, and lets her pull him towards her. 

She says, “Politicians, you mean.”

“ _ Faerghus _ politicians. A truly fascinating breed,” says Claude, manoeuvring his hand so it fits just right with hers. His eyes then sweep over to Byleth, and he gives a charming smile. “No offence to your sweetheart.” 

Byleth merely blinks, and Ingrid sighs. 

Double-meanings, sarcasm and contradictory usages of phrases do not mesh well with Byleth. Ingrid remembers the time Sylvain used that line on her, when he very obviously had  _ meant _ to cause offence, to which Byleth had simply replied:  _ ‘None taken.’ _

Ingrid still remembers Sylvain’s expression. Honestly, it was sort of hilarious. 

As Ingrid expects, Byleth says, “Do you actually mean offence, or—”

“—He doesn’t mean anything by it,” says Ingrid, and watches as Byleth backs off with a simple nod. She, in turn, tugs at Claude’s hand and signals to the door. “Come on, we’re going. We’ve been here long enough.” 

In response, Byleth stands to open the door for the two of them, and gives one of her rare, soft smiles that Ingrid knew Dimitri so adored. It is a bit embarrassing to admit, but Ingrid just might too. 

“Bye, you two. Thanks for coming.” 

In response, Ingrid offers a tight, small smile and exits the Blaiddyd mansion with Claude in tow. 

As they trot along the pavement, Ingrid’s fingers loosen, as does his, and so their hands separate from each other. Ingrid then shoves her hands into her coat pockets, breath white. She strides ahead, heels clicking against the concrete pavement. Claude remains behind her, with his own dress shoes making a dense, steady rhythm. 

It is only after they turn the street corner when Claude calls out from behind her. “You’re mad, aren’t you?” 

In response, Ingrid stops her march. She turns on her heel to look at Claude, who greets her with a blithe smile. She sighs.

“I am absolutely exhausted, and I cannot fathom how you’re not,” says Ingrid. She rubs at her temple and turns around to keep walking once again. Her pace is mellower than before. “A late flight, broken phones and an asshat of a taxi driver, and we hadn’t even reached the party. Yet you still have the energy to chat with politicians late into the night.” 

The events of the party flash through her mind. Arriving hours late, slighting Mercedes with unintentional implications, yelling at Dimitri and Sylvain, then failing to find Felix to comfort him —she had learnt her lesson about yelling by this point— then decimating the cold leftovers of the buffet tables with only Sylvain to keep her company. Which she would have appreciated, if he didn’t keep making fun of her or trying to pry the food off of her plates, like her cheese gratin. He doesn’t even like cheese that much. 

Ingrid then hears how Claude clicks his tongue and how the steady rhythm of his footsteps slow down.

He says, “Ah, yes. You’re mad.” 

Mad. An assessment that she perhaps would have agreed with, were it not for the fact that she was jet-lagged, slightly tipsy and absolutely stuffed with beef bourguignon, caviar and macaroons. There is no energy left to muster an emotion even resembling anger. 

“Not quite,” says Ingrid, pausing to consider a more appropriate term to describe her current state. She sighs. “Disappointed would be a more fitting descriptor.” 

“Oof,” says Claude, hissing in a breath. “Madam, do you realise that your disappointment stings more than your fury? Please, spare me of the former.”

“If you hadn’t wished to cause disappointment, then perhaps you shouldn’t have spent most of your time networking with politicians for hours, while only socialising with my friends for barely a quarter of that time,” says Ingrid, as she looks over her shoulder to throw an arched brow. “Don’t you agree?”

Scoffing, Claude raises his hands in mock-defence. “Hey, come on! I spoke with Dimitri for ages.”

Ingrid gives him a look. “A politician.”

“A fascinating one,” says Claude, and his eyes take on that glint of curiosity and passion that most of the time, she found incredibly attractive. Now is not one of those times, however. He continues, “After all, he’s breaking all the stereotypes about Faerghus politicians. He’s not corrupt, actually believes he can enact change in the system and isn’t a balding old grump. Truly, a rare breed of a rare breed.” 

“Perhaps,” says Ingrid, her feet dragging along the cobblestone path, “but before that, he’s a friend first.” 

“Of course. And I didn’t mean to imply otherwise,” says Claude, and the mischievous shine in his eyes doesn’t falter. In fact, it is reinforced. “But may I offer a defence then, your Honour?”

Ingrid snorts. She can already tell where this is going. She says, with a lilt of amusement, “You may.” 

Claude grins. He saunters over to her side, and she matches his pace as they begin to cross the pedestrian crossing together. 

“My first defence,” says Claude, wagging his finger. “I’d say a good majority of the people there were politicians. So, chances are that I was bound to be speaking with those involved in governance.” 

His point was somewhat warranted. Many of those in attendance were Dimitri’s political allies. Rodrigue was one such example. They were not, however, the majority as he so claimed. Perhaps to Claude’s selective eyes, it appeared so, but it was not the reality. Additionally, Dimitri’s political allies were —Ingrid pauses to think for a suitable term— small in number. But that is not the core issue. The issue is how he delegated his time between her and her friends, and his objects of fascination.

She says, “Objection. That is a false claim. Also, your argument doesn’t address why you were barely around." 

Claude gasps and takes on the tone of an affronted defence attorney. “Objection, your Honour! You’re the judge, not the prosecutor. That is the wrong terminology! Your Honour, are you the prosecution in hiding?” 

His source of inspiration is obvious. Her. Ingrid bites back a laugh and replies, “Objection overruled.” 

Claude keeps up the act, now adding gesticulations to his repertoire. He says, his pitch getting higher and higher, “Your Honour, this is a corruption of justice!” 

Ingrid wags her finger and shakes her head. “Then provide me with a better defence, Counsel.” 

“Very well,” says Claude. He hums, and his eyes look upward towards the sky, before he resettles his gaze on Ingrid. “My second defence. I wouldn’t exactly call your inner circle of friends the most welcoming of people.”

At that, Ingrid stops in her tracks. She twists her body to face Claude and her eyes scan his expression for any hints of emotion. It is ineffective, however, as he has plastered his trademark grin of charm and innocence. She says, keeping her voice low and even, “What do you mean? Were they rude to you?” 

Claude shrugs his shoulders, hands resting in his pockets. They walk across another crossing, and the red light of the traffic signal shines on his face. “Your friend Felix is an obvious example, I suppose. I knew what to expect, but still, his glare could cut glass,” says Claude, before giving a small huff of laughter. “Honestly, it was amusing how blatantly hostile he was.” 

Ingrid sighs, and thinks back on Felix’s demeanour at the party. After she spoke with Sylvain, she had attempted to locate him, only to then find out from Dedue that he had left early. A part of her empathised. Sylvain’s break up was like a hurricane. It came quick, left a path of destruction, but eventually, the people rebuild. But Felix’s was more akin to a dormant volcano. Teasing eruption, simmering under the surface before eventually exploding and causing great havoc. And then, the cycle would repeat.

“Today wasn’t exactly his day. He’s usually much less abrupt,” says Ingrid. She exhales, and watches as her breath forms into a white cloud. “Still, your point is justified. I’m sorry for his behaviour, I’ll talk to him about it.” 

“No worries. After all,” says Claude, and his eyes yet again take on that glint of curiosity and passion. “his father, Rodrigue Fraldarius, was such an interesting—”

Ingrid groans, long and loud. “Again with the senators? Really?” 

In response, Claude chuckles, wrapping his arm around her shoulders, then squeezing her into him. “Hey, just messing with you.” 

She glares. “But you’re not.”

He whispers, his tone light and humorous, “But I might be.” 

Ingrid lightly smacks his shoulder and struggles to restrain a laugh. “That hardly makes any sense.” 

Ingrid’s suppressed laughter turns into a small gasp, however, as she feels a strong whoosh of wind pass by her and the rough tug of Claude’s hand on her bicep, pulling her away.

“Careful,” he says, steadying her into the side of his shoulder. He gazes after the culprit with furrowed brows and a scoff of disbelief. “A bicycle. With no lights on. At this time?” 

“It is ridiculously common here,” says Ingrid, regaining her footing. She directs her glare to the cyclist, who is already some distance away. She yells, “Get caught and enjoy your two-hundred gold fine,  _ asshole!”  _

Claude whistles. “I hope he heard that. I doubt it, but how nice would that be?” 

“I can’t even care.” Ingrid kicks a stray pebble in her path and grunts. She then sighs, letting her eyes flutter shut for a moment before gradually reopening them. She mutters, “Gods, it is exhausting to be angry.”

In response, Claude pulls her closer into his body and gently squeezes her shoulder. She looks over to see a grin. “Too exhausted to hear out the rest of my argument, even?” says Claude. 

Ingrid huffs, her lips curling, and lets her body lull against him as they restart their trek. She says, “You have the right to a fair trial. Let’s hear it.”

Claude nods. There is a noticeable pause between her words and his next. He says, “Sylvain was another one.”

Ingrid blinks and looks up to Claude, leaning on his shoulder. “Sylvain? What about him?” 

He hums, his hand on his chin. “Good question. What about him, exactly?” 

Her eyes narrow. “You’re the one who brought him up.” 

Claude shrugs, and Ingrid’s arm is pulled up with it.

“True, but eh. I’m really not sure what it was. And to be fair, we just didn’t get much opportunity to speak,” says Claude. He stares at her from the side. “After all, he was with you by the buffet all night, while I was in the salon with some very interesting people.”

Ingrid’s lips press together and her grasp on Claude’s arm tightens. “Perhaps if you had left those precious people of yours, then you may have had a chance to get to know him better.”

Claude looks to her and gives a sweet, sweet smile that she knows is mocking. “Perhaps if you had left those precious macaroons of yours, you may have had a chance to get to know  _ them _ better. They were so darling, Ingrid dear.”

She groans. He laughs. 

“Oh goddess,” says Ingrid, as she rolls her eyes. She continues, “You two do have a lot in common, though. I’ll see if we can organise a meet-up. Maybe have lunch together.”

Claude clicks his tongue, shaking his head side-to-side. “Oh, you’re not fooling me. That’s just an excuse for you to stuff your mouth with—”

She glares. 

“—salad and friendship! How dear.” 

Ingrid’s brows scrunch together. “How bizarre. That's all you could think of?” 

“My dear lady, you put me on the spot,” says Claude, shaking his head with a sigh. “But anyway, I think I agree with your assessment about us having a lot in common.”

Ingrid offers, “Like your work?”

He looks to her as he continues, “Our taste in women, for one.”

Ingrid pauses. There’s only two women he could possibly mean. And considering Sylvain, there is only one true option. Ingrid looks down, watching her heels as she walks down the street. She mutters, “Well, Mercedes is rather beautiful. I don’t blame you.” 

At that, Claude blinks, before giving a small chuckle. He squeezes her closer. “Oh, no, not her,” says Claude. He places a hand on his chin and hums. “Though I must say—”

Ingrid returns her gaze to his face and glares. In turn, Claude places a hand on his heart, and the other points to the sky. 

“—you are the only one for me, my love. I wish to pick strawberries in a field together and to have beautiful, beautiful children, with our union blessed by the Goddess.” 

“Oh please,” says Ingrid, and she snorts. Then, she pauses. “But then who did you mean?”

“Hilda,” says Claude, “after all, we did date for some time. She told me a few things about Sylvain.” 

Hilda Goneril. Ingrid never spoke to her much, but Sylvain was good friends with her. Even friends with benefits, for a time. She grimaces — what a putrid thought. She says, “Right.” 

“But you know, now that I’m saying this all out loud,” says Claude, tilting his head and pressing his lips together. “I suppose my second defence isn’t all that great either. Hm. My verdict, Your Honour?”

“Your verdict is—” Ingrid looks away from Claude, tapping a finger against her chin. She blinks at the sight beyond her. “—to be decided at a later date. Court is adjourned.” 

“Your Honour! That is—” says Claude, his voice risen in preparation for the revival of the mock attorney act. His eyes follow her gaze and he huffs. Claude lets out a whistle as he looks upon the building. “Huh, and so we’ve arrived. How fast time goes during a lover’s spat."

Their journey completed, they both turn to look upon the Grand Fhirdiad Hotel. Co-owned by the Gautier and Fraldarius families, the hotel often hosts dignitaries and other members of the elite. When her family still owned a share, Ingrid had attended such an event, with the Adrestian emperor present. Her memories of the time are somewhat vague, but she does remember that her, Dimitri and Sylvain had snuck away to play with the royal children.

Unfortunately, Ingrid’s penchant for swiping treats had resulted in the capture of their merry little band. To this day, she still feels a tinge of guilt. 

“You know, it still boggles the mind how much of a discount we’re getting,” Claude says, giving a small sigh. He turns to her with a straight face, and says, “Your connections are frankly terrifying.” 

“Whatever.” Ingrid scoffs, and she begins to climb the stairs leading up to the hotel entrance. “Let’s just go to our room and sleep.”

Ingrid hears Claude's footsteps follow her from behind. 

“As you say, sleeping beauty,” Claude says, and Ingrid senses something amiss and looks over her shoulder. Claude's eyes crinkle as he chuckles. “Or rather, eating beauty?” 

Gasping, Ingrid takes her hand from her pocket and reaches out to lightly smack him on the shoulder. As Claude dodges, however, Ingrid gasps as she feels her foot landing on an unexpected step. Catching her by the arm, Claude allows Ingrid to regain her balance before twirling her, like some sort of Adrestian princess. 

He grins. “Hey. Still a princess.”

She glares, but lets Claude pull her towards him, and she lands in his arms.

Ingrid closes her eyes. 

What a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MORE LIKE WHAT A LONG CHAPTER JESUS CHRIST WOMAN
> 
> BUT ANYWAY
> 
> I'm hungry for validation so I'll posting chapter by chapter, whoops. The updates will be every fortnight because I have just realised that I will not be able to write less than +5000 words per chapter. This is turning out to be a monster. 
> 
> BUT ANYWAY
> 
> I HOPE YA’LL ENJOYED BYE I NEED TO GO CATCH UP ON SYLVGRID WORKS
> 
> Next Chapter: Sylvain realises that he's stupid. Like, really stupid.


	3. Unrequited Love Combined with a Hangover and a Craving for Coffee is a Deadly Combination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the span of three days, Sylvain realises that he's stupid, self-destructive and cowardly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How the comments made me feel last chapter:  
> 
> 
>   
> i-i don't know what to say about the word count
> 
> everyone's comments made me write like a woman possessed
> 
> read this over the day folks
> 
> ALSO:  
> -I have changed Ingrid and Sylvain's age. They are now 28 and 30 respectively, because of some timeline issues.  
> -The jade necklace in chapter 1 has been switched to a pearl one because of a plot bunny in this chapter. Dw Sunni we're still the jade gang.  
> 

**Continental Year 3027, Horsebow Moon**

Enbarr is a city which balances both the old and the new. Its storied history is marked by ancient monuments, such as the Grand Cathedral of the Paternal Saint, the Mittelfrank Opera House and the Hresvelg Imperial Palace. But its appreciation for modernity is evidenced by its numerous Dagdan coffeehouses, high skyscrapers and couples of any combination of race, gender or sexuality, walking hand-in-hand, with no shame or fear. Thus, it is unsurprising that it has been granted the unofficial moniker of 'the City of All'.

Sylvain likes Enbarr for one other reason, however.

“Oh?” Mercedes' lightly mascaraed lashes flutter as she blinks. “You think Ingrid might like you back?”

Its beautiful women.

“Well.” Sylvain sips his Dagdan coffee to cover his small grin. “I _think_ so.”

Giving an audible gasp, Mercedes' hands rush to cover her mouth, and Sylvain's grin widens. While he can’t see her lips, he can tell by the crinkle of her eyes and raised cheeks that she is smiling. She's probably showing teeth, too. Her hands move to cup both of her cheeks, and she places her elbows on the table and — yep, there it is. A toothy grin.

"My, that is the most confident you’ve ever been!”

Sylvain _could_ be offended by this statement, but he’s riding a high of confidence in an area in which he previously had none. So, he’ll take it as a compliment. Even her poison tastes sweet, after all.

“Yeah, well. She’s been giving,” says Sylvain, and he lets the tension build as he takes another sip. He smacks his lips before continuing, “Hints.”

Mercedes gasps yet again. “Hints!”

Sylvain nods with a toothy grin. This is good for the ego. He begins, “Well. Not a lot. But, you know. Enough.”

Mercedes chuckles as she adds another teaspoon of sugar — her fifth, to be specific. He’s been counting. After all, her chronic sweet tooth never fails to fascinate him. So many questions. When will she stop? And how come her teeth still shine like pearls after all her voracious sugar consumption?

Her eyes twinkle as she says, “Such as?”

But more importantly, it's time for him to brag.

“She said she misses Faerghus,” says Sylvain, and this time, he doesn’t bother hiding his grin, “and _me.”_

He hears a loud gasp and looks up to find Mercedes' jaw dropped and her eyes widened. "Oh my!"

Sylvain knows that she's exaggerating. Even with that knowledge, however, his ego swells and his cheeks are beginning to hurt from smiling for too long, too wide.

Yeah, this is _way_ too good for his ego.

Biting his cheek — the grin still doesn’t settle down — Sylvain leans back against his chair. 

“With no mention of Felix, Dimitri or her family," he says. "So, yeah. That’s gotta be something, right?”

“Oh, goodness, I do believe that you are onto something,” says Mercedes. She leans closer, chin resting on her hand. “Care to tell me more?”

“That’s the major one,” he says, before licking some froth off his lips. "The others are pretty subtle. Like, is this even a hint? Am I reading into this too much? But those add up, you know. There’s a limit to badly-worded suggestions. That’s how I know–" Sylvain pauses, his eyes seeking hers as he hopes to land his last words with impact, “–I’ve got a chance.”

“My,” Mercedes says, giggling as she stirs her tea. “You are so confident. What a wonderful sight.”

His cheeks _really_ hurt _._ Needing a break, Sylvain covers his mouth with a hand, kneading his exhausted cheeks. He looks away from Mercedes to gaze upon the scenery, eyes landing on the capital's centrepiece: the Hresvelg Palace. It is then that Sylvain comes to a realisation.

He’s at a Dagdan coffeehouse with a beautiful Adrestian woman, while gazing upon a historical monument.

Yeah. Enbarr is pretty darn great.

Leaning back on his chair, his gaze returns to Mercedes. “To tell you the truth, I think I might tell her soon,” says Sylvain. “You know, go visit her in Derdriu for the Ethereal holidays, cause she can’t make it to Faerghus this year.”

Mercedes nods. “I think that sounds like a lovely idea.”

“Take her out to a fancy restaurant. Buy her a bouquet.” Sylvain pauses. He then giggle-snorts. Him. Giggling. Snorting. Gods, today is a day. He continues, still giggle-snorting, “A _meat_ bouquet.”

In response, Mercedes giggles also, although she doesn’t join him on the snorting front. “Oh, I’m sure that Ingrid would love that.”

Ingrid and food is a recipe for success, but surely there’s something else he could do. He thinks. She _did_ complain about her car, after all. Something about a terrible engine and a non-functioning heater. Should he surprise her with a new — no, no. If he did that, instead of kissing him, she would kill him.

He lets that thought sit.

Kissing Ingrid. Huh.

Oh goddess.

Sylvain buries his face in his palm, and feels how his skin burns.

The thought of kissing Ingrid should not be so enticing.

“Well, I wish you luck, Sylvain. Let me know if all goes well.”

Sylvain looks up and sees Mercedes taking another sip of her tea, her eyes staring holes into another sugar packet. He bites back a grin, but then he loses the need, as he thinks on her words.

If. That is a scary word. The suggestion, the implication, the alternative that things could possibly _not_ go well— is absolutely terrifying.

And what does Sylvain do when he’s scared?

Placing an elbow on their shared table and leaning closer, he whispers, “Mind if I seek comfort in your arms if it doesn’t?”

“Oh, Sylvain. If that happens, I’ll refer you to a colleague of mine, don’t you worry,” says Mercedes, bopping his nose.

Bop. He's never been bopped in his life. A first for everything.

Laughing, she continues, “He’s a very experienced psychologist and is well-versed with your type. I’m sure it’ll be a good fit.”

Again, he _could_ be offended, but again, the _high_ of it all. So instead, he winks. “I’ll take your word for it.”

Mercedes’ gentle lull of laughter is then interrupted by the blare of his ringtone. Sylvain’s brows scrunch together as he reaches for his phone in his pant pocket.

He frowns. Already?

Giving Mercedes a nod, Sylvain takes the call. After a minute, he sighs as he shoves the phone back into his pocket.

“Gods, I’m really sorry. I’ve gotta get back to the summit,” says Sylvain. He then smiles. “Gotta say, it was great catching up with you. We should do this again sometime.”

Mercedes takes a sip of her coffee and says, “Oh, but I doubt your new lady friend would be quite happy with that.”

Sylvain ignores that because otherwise, his face will burn and ruin his perfect porcelain skin.

So instead, he channels his inner Dedue, forcing his face muscles to settle into a stoic expression.

As he removes himself from the seat, he is careful not to yank, but rather gently pull the legs upward, so as to avoid it from screeching against the outdoor pavement. Patting the wisteria petals off his suit jacket, he then shoves his arms into the sleeves before tugging the collar for a final adjustment. He then checks his reflection in the café window.

Good.

Hands on hips, Sylvain twirls around to face Mercedes. "Thoughts?"

With an amused smile, she gives a low whistle. “Very handsome.”

He winks. “Good taste.”

Briefcase in hand, Sylvain then reaches out to gently cover Mercedes' hand with his own. He grips it. 

“I really hope things go well for your brother.”

Mercedes' smile is as beautiful as ever, though marked with a tinge of bittersweet regret, as she says, “I do too.”

Giving a final squeeze, Sylvain mirrors her smile before exiting the café premises with a light jog. Some few metres away, however, he hears the screech of a chair and the voice of Mercedes' usually soft voice raised in a yell.

"Sylvain! Wait, the bill—”

Sylvain looks over his shoulder and yells back, “It’s too late! I’ve already paid!”

Eyes still over his shoulder, Sylvain laughs as he catches her gasp, before then dashing across the pedestrian crossing to avoid her polite rejection, with his briefcase bouncing against his thigh (ouch). Mercedes may be a woman of many talents, but running is not one of them.

Confident that he's built enough distance, Sylvain then switches his sprint to a casual saunter. There is a hop to his step and a delirious grin on his face, and he watches as an elderly woman flinches away from him. Fair enough. He probably looks like a maniac, but who cares?

How could he, when the cool autumn wind is caressing his face, when the melodious chanting travels from the Grand Cathedral to his ears — and when Ingrid finally, _probably,_ has feelings for him?

A glint of green catches his eye and Sylvain looks to the side. A street vendor, selling gems and jewellery — a jade necklace which reminds him of her eyes stands out to him. 

Ah. He's found the missing ingredient.

"How much is this?" says Sylvain, pointing to the necklace.

The vendor stops fiddling with another necklace, as his eyes travel over to the specified item. 

"That's Brigid jade. Will cost you a fair penny," says the vendor, caressing his braided beard. He gives Sylvain a once-over. "Seventy dollars."

Sylvain nods. "Sure. You do credit?"

The old man grins. "'Course. Here you go."

Sylvain pulls out his credit card. As he inputs his pin, the vendor says, "You're from Faerghus, aren't you?"

Sylvain offers a smile. "That easy, huh? I thought I was doing a good job of avoiding the tourist look. It’s the accent, isn’t it?”

"You don't barter."

"Should I?" says Sylvain.

The man shakes his head. "No."

Sylvain gives a small chuckle. "Alright."

As the man wraps the necklace in wrapping paper, Sylvain's mind drifts. He imagines how it would look on Ingrid's porcelain skin, whether she would let him help her put it on (the clasp is rather small after all) and how she would react when he gifts it to her— wait, she's definitely going to ask for its cost, isn’t she? Note to self: lie about the price.

His drifting mind is disturbed, however, by the buzz of his phone. He's tempted to ignore it, because it's likely that it’s his father — but it _might_ be Ingrid. And so, Sylvain digs his phone out of his pocket to check the screen, finding a social media update from Ingrid.

Sylvain grins, unlocking his phone. He takes a mental bingo. Will it be a picture of food again? Or perhaps yet another rant on Derdriu traffic? Or even—

His smile drops.

_Relationship status: In a Relationship with Claude von Riegan_

The autumn wind whirls into a wintry howl, and the singing of the cathedral comes to a halt. His heart thrums, and all feels numb.

Then, Sylvain looks to his hand and finds the jade necklace shoved onto his palm.

“Just so you know," the vendor says, "I don’t do returns.”

* * *

_“Good morning. The late President Blaiddyd’s son and Independent party representative, Dimitri Blaiddyd held…”_

Sylvain does not open his eyes.

Instead, he lets the buzz of the T.V fill his living room with background noise. Sensation gradually returns to him, and he feels how the remote is nestled underneath his back and feels how his head is split into two pieces of hurt. Groaning, Sylvain's hand travels from his chest to his hand, feeling wrinkles and popped buttons along the way.

He pauses. How much was this shirt again? 200 — no, 300 dollars?

Oh well. He’ll just buy another one.

_“...there have been claims that his fiancée is a relative of Archbishop Rhea, although the specific familial relationship is unknown…”_

Sylvain opens his eyes.

He needs coffee.

And so, Sylvain groans as he sits up on his white modular couch. He takes a look over his shoulder, and sees the light imprint of the remote and the blotches of red wine stains. He grimaces. Why did he think it was a good idea to drink a whole bottle of wine after how much champagne he drank at the party? Also, how much did this sofa cost again? 1000 — no, 2000 dollars?

Oh well. He’ll just buy another— no.

He should get it cleaned. Yeah, how much would that cost? What, 300 dollars? Should be cheaper than buying a new one, anyway. 

Sylvain shudders as he gets off the sofa, feeling his back pop and crack in places he never even knew popped and cracked. He squints. His eyesight is blurry. Meaning, he didn’t forget to take out his contacts. Good. But also – where the hell are his glasses?

Damn it. He can't be bothered – he should just buy another pair. Maybe a nice rouge colour. Or monochrome to match with his work clothes, on those days when he really can't be damned about wearing contacts.

Oh well.

Dress shoes tapping against his tiled flooring – okay, so he forgot to take _them_ off – Sylvain plods over to his kitchen. Squinting, he shoves his face close to his espresso machine.

It takes a moment for the focus to settle, but once it does, he starts to prepare his coffee. 

When the only remaining task is to wait for that beautiful, beautiful, _ping,_ Sylvain closes his eyes and rests his body against the counter. As he waits, the smell of coffee gradually intensifies, wafting to his nose. He feels the steam and hears the prattle of the machine. Coffee. A gift from the Goddess.

_“If it is indeed true that she is related to the Archbishop, then the political implications of the Church’s involvement in the case five years ago are truly—”_

Sylvain runs a palm over his face before yelling, “Hey, Sitri! Turn off the T.V!”

The device obeys his command, shutting off the T.V. Silence. Then, the _ping_ of his coffee machine rings. Sylvain opens his eyes, and before long, he takes his first sip with bated breath, and — grimaces, because frankly, it tastes like horse dung. Which he has tasted before, once upon a time, during a very drunk night in his family estate's stable. But hell, that doesn’t even top his Top 5 of regretful moments. 

Anyway, when coffee is good, it tastes like the first time you had your favourite food. When it's not, horse dung. And today is one of those days.

Sighing, he sets his disappointing cup aside and searches for his phone. Thankfully, it doesn’t take him long, finding it in his back pocket. He makes a call.

“...Hey, you free right now?” 

Sylvain flinches away from his phone, however, as he is met with profanities and a soprano screech. But he persists — he knew what to expect. The screeches and lectures settle down into civilised conversation. Sylvain glances to the clock. Seven-thirty a.m.

“Good. See you in two hours, then.”

Sighing, he throws himself on the sofa. He then opens his eyes as he catches a whiff of something that is most definitely _not_ coffee.

Sylvain scowls. He needs a shower.

* * *

“So? What did you do this time?”

Hearing that melodious lilt with its familiar hint of venom, Sylvain looks up from his phone to behold Dorothea in all of her glory. 

Puffy-eyed, sallow-skinned, bare-faced, hungover Dorothea is always a humbling sight. He appreciates it every time – though, he can't exactly laugh about it. Not when he's in a fairly similar state, what with his grandfather's old frames, Garreg Mach sweatpants and a very, very puffy face.

Sylvain offers a glib smile, standing up to pull out her chair.

“Good morning, gorgeous,” he says, guiding her to her seat. “Even the beautiful weather of a clear Sunday morning doesn’t compare to your beauty.”

“Oh, cut the crap.” Dorothea groans, rolling her eyes as she smacks herself down in the chair. With both her limbs crossed, she begins her interrogation. “Answer the question and make it quick, sweetie. I have rehearsals after this. How did you ruin your life _this_ time?”

He snorts. “That wasn’t the question, was it?”

“I know what I said," says Dorothea, as she pulls out her makeup bag. She grabs a foundation brush and points it to him. “Start. Talking.”

“Fine, fine,” says Sylvain, sighing. He looks down as his fingers dance across a laminated menu. Returning his gaze to Dorothea, he watches as Dorothea massages some primer onto her sullen skin. He attempts a smile. “So. I lied to Ingrid.”

Dorothea arches a brow as she shoves the primer into her bag, hand now rustling for her next item – her Primadonna Natural Longwear SPF 30 Foundation. He has her routine memorised by now.

Squirting the foundation onto her beauty blender, she says, “Isn’t that the usual for you?”

“Well, you see—” Sylvain's fingers search for something to fiddle with, “—now she thinks that I’m still in love with Mercedes.”

Dorothea’s hand freezes mid-movement. Maintaining her eye-contact, she slowly puts down the bottle of foundation onto the table. She whispers, “You stupid donkey.”

Sylvain looks down to his hands, fiddling with a serviette. “Yeah. I know.”

“You stupid, stupid donkey," whispers Dorothea, maintaining eye contact even as she spreads the foundation across her face with a beauty blender. It’s extremely intimidating. Dabbing across her forehead, she says, “How did that even happen? How can you screw up so badly?” 

Sylvain rips the serviette in half and grumbles, “She was on to me, okay? I had to lie! Because otherwise, she would have found out about—” he pauses, nibbling his bottom lip. “Well, you know.”

Dorothea scoffs. “What, about the feelings you should have told her ages ago?” She pulls out a light peach lipstick to fill in her plump lips. “Oh, how I pity you so.”

Sylvain rubs at his nape. “Well, now’s not exactly great timing, is it? She’s with Claude."

Dorothea smacks her lips together. "You poor baby."

"Can I be real honest for a second here?" says Sylvain, and he doesn't wait for her acknowledgement before he continues, “I fucking hate that guy."

“Oh, yeah?” says Dorothea. She pops her lips with her thumb to remove the excess lipstick, before grabbing a serviette to wipe off the stain. She smiles. “Well. I like him.”

Sylvain gawks. Is betrayal supposed to be so laissez-faire?

“What? Why?”

“Well, why don’t you? Oh – excuse me, miss!” Dorothea yells, calling over the waitress. She offers a polite grin as she says, “Thank you, dear. Just the usual.”

“Isn’t it fairly obvious?” Sylvain sighs, before passing the menu to the waitress with a small smile. “Oh, but change my drink to a cafe noir, please.”

The waitress gives a small ' _no problem'_ , before heading to the kitchen to report the order. Sylvain looks back to Dorothea, whose own eyes are directed to her diamond-studded hand-mirror.

Pressing an eyeshadow brush against her lid, Dorothea says, “Talk me through it, dear. You might find it cathartic.”

Sylvain knows why she’s getting him to do this. It's because she’s doing her eye make-up, a most skilful task which requires utmost concentration. He wishes that she would just wait.

“Look, I don't know what you want me to say,” says Sylvain, leaning back on his seat. “He’s the boyfriend of the woman who I’ve been in love with for years. I don’t know what else could be…”

_Relationship status: In a Relationship with—_

Sylvain rips another serviette apart by his lap.

“Sure, sure,” says Dorothea, as she dabs a shimmering aqua colour on her eyelids. Huh. He hasn’t seen that one before —new palette? Now accenting the blue with gold, she continues, “Though, you never disliked Ashe or Iggy.”

“Hey, when I realised how I felt, Ingrid and Ashe were already dating for some time. I just felt guilty," says Sylvain, looking down to his lap. He sighs as he finds the mess he's made out of the serviettes. He shoves the evidence into his hoodie pocket, lest Dorothea see. "And by the time Ignatz came along, I was with Mercedes.”

Dorothea crimps one side of her eyelash with a curler. "Timing, then?"

"Exactly," says Sylvain. He sighs. “Plus, they were just so nice. How could I hate them?”

The curler moves to her other eye. Then, she says, “Claude’s nice.”

“Claude is—” Sylvain pauses, attempting to find the right word. Claude is what? Not nice? An asshole? He settles on: “different.”

“How so?”

Sylvain doesn't respond. His eyes try to glance away to his hands, but Dorothea's hawk-like stare is already latched onto him. Now, he definitely can't look away, especially with how the shimmering eyeshadow accentuates her stare.

Huh. He supposes it's more peacock-like than hawk-like. 

“Sylvain. Let me describe someone to you.”

His glasses droop down low on his nose. He can’t quite see her expression, but he sees how she leans in, elbow on table, blue and gold sparkling under the light of the morning sun.

“This person is male. He is charming, quick-witted and might I say, _very_ good-looking. He likes strategy games, such as chess. On his days off, he would choose to go to a museum or an art gallery."

Sylvain's brows bunch together. Isn't she just describing him?

"As for his occupation, he works for the government in the diplomatic sector, and is in love with a certain blonde. Now,” Dorothea says, before lowering her voice to a whisper, “who am I describing?”

Sylvain freezes. He then says, “What are you trying to get at?”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve noticed, at least on a subconscious level. After all, this is what has been bothering you so much, right?" Dorothea says. She looks over her manicured nail as she continues, “The fact that Claude is eerily similar to you.”

Sylvain freezes again, before muttering, "What?"

"Eerily so, Sylvain," says Dorothea. She snorts. “But arguably, a better version. An upgrade, if you will.”

“What – how so?" says Sylvain. He places a hand to his heart. This is pure betrayal.

“Let me see," says Dorothea, humming as she threads her fingers through her hair. "Well, he’s a Leicester gentleman with no history of philandering, is ambitious, charming and handsome. Also, has a great career lined up for him in politics…”

Sylvain opens his mouth to rebuff her argument – he's 80% of those things, after all.

“Oh, and he’s not her childhood friend whose ass she’s had to wipe for twenty odd years," says Dorothea. She grins. “That probably helps.”

Okay. 60%.

Sylvain mutters, “Alright, sure. You got me there.”

Leaning in, Dorothea whispers, “By a _lot.”_

He looks down with a wry smile. “Great.”

“Oh, but don’t worry. _I_ like you, flaws and all,” Dorothea coos, reaching out to pinch his cheeks. She gives a gentle pat as she pulls back. “You’re adorable, and I can’t say that about Claude. He’s too—"

As he looks down, Sylvain's wry smile is reflected in his glass of water. "What, perfect?"

Dorothea gives a delighted chuckle. "Yes, exactly!"

He swirls the glass, sighing as he brings it up to his lips. “You do realise that you’re just complimenting him?”

“ _Too_ perfect, sweetie. It’s not a good thing," says Dorothea, wagging her finger. “On another note—”

Sylvain sighs. He doesn't want to listen anymore. Hoping to distract himself, Sylvain chugs his glass of water—

“—you hate that she’s definitely having sex. Good sex, at that.”

—and sputters it out all over their shared table.

Grabbing his throat, Sylvain coughs and chokes, before reaching out for Dorothea's untouched glass. He sips at it, in an attempt to settle his throat.

“Really, Sylvain?" Dorothea huffs, her legs bunched up on her chair. Sending him a glare, she points to her purse. "And all over my Valentine bag? This was a winter exclusive, I'll have you know."

“It’s just water! It’ll be fine." Sylvain groans as he grabs some serviettes, wiping the water off the table. He sighs. “And if it’s not, just ask Hilda to send another one your way.”

“And publicly humiliate myself? I refuse," says Dorothea. "But anyway, back to my point."

"I– what?" says Sylvain, sputtering. "How is this even a point of discussion?"

“Oh, please. I know how your mind works,” says Dorothea. She huffs, crossing her legs and arms. “Ashe and Ignatz were sweet. But they were _sweet_ , you know? You could just kind of pretend that there wasn’t anything going down below.”

Sylvain stares with a slackened jaw. Are they really going to talk about this? Is she _really_ going to talk about this?

“But Claude? Just look at him,” says Dorothea, giving a whistle and fanning herself. “That is an experienced, experienced fellow, and we both can tell. Birds of the same feather, as they say. She is having a good time.”

Oh gods. She is talking about this. Oh no. She _is_ — and he _has_ to stop her.

"By the Goddess and her Four Saints, could you please, _please_ not talk about Ingrid's sex life?" Sylvain groans, digging his face into his hoodie. "I didn't call you for this, okay?"

In response, Dorothea thumps back into her chair with rolled eyes. “Oh, for the Goddess’ sake, she’s not St. Cethleann, you know.”

Sylvain raises a palm. “I never said—”

Dorothea clicks her tongue. “Oh please, you have a serious Seiros-Whore complex.”

Sylvain leans in. “No, I don’t.”

Dorothea leans in closer. “Yes, you do.”

He leans back and straightens his back. “No, I’m right about this!”

He knows the term well. Time and time again, vindictive exes and feminists have hurled this diagnosis his way — and the women were often a combination of both. For some reason, he attracted the type of woman who, by all accounts, _should_ hate him just by looking at him. Instead, they wanted to — but that is besides the point.

"Mercedes explained this to me," says Sylvain, standing up just a little to gain leverage over Dorothea's intimidating peacock-glare. "You would only have a Seiros-Whore complex if you were unable to be aroused by a so-called 'Seiros' type. Which I am perfectly capable of!"

Dorothea huffs. “Oh, please."

"I am! I dated Mercedes! What do you think we did? Pray to the Goddess at night?"

Dorothea looks up at him through her heavily mascared lashes. "You did start going to church a whole lot."

"Because of the promises it yielded for the night!" yells Sylvain. "Anyway, the way you used it was wrong, okay? Because I _am_ sexually capable of _doing_ a Seiros—”

“Your coffee, sir."

Sylvain clamps his mouth shut. He sits back down. “...Thank you."

The waitress nods, and places Dorothea's order on the table. “And miss, your matcha ice tea.”

Dorothea offers a sweet smile. "Thank you," she says. She then takes a small sip, then hums. “Mm. Perfect as always.”

The waitress smiles. "Glad to hear that."

As the server turns on her heel, Sylvain lets out a small, suppressed whine. Covering his face with his hoodie, he shrivels up into a small ball and lays his face on the table.

“So,” says Dorothea, noisily slurping her ice tea from the straw before continuing, “that was the stupidest thing I’ve heard all day.”

Sylvain exhales as he gradually returns to society. "Well, it's only nine-thirty. Not much of a jab."

Dorothea shakes her head as she says, “Oh, you’d be surprised with the things that I have to deal with.”

Sylvain offers, “Felix?”

Dorothea bites her straw and looks away. “It’s—”

Sylvain raises his hands in defence. “None of my business, I know, I know—”

“—complicated.”

Sylvain blinks. “Oh. Alright.”

“Look, we were talking about Ingrid’s relationships, not mine,” says Dorothea. She goes quiet, and the only noise between them is her slurping. Then, with a mean look to her eyes, she says, “You’ve brought up a sore spot, and now I’m in a bad mood. Thanks for that."

"Don't blame me," says Sylvain. He pauses before continuing, "Blame Felix."

She glares. It’s terrifying.

Dorothea leans in closer and says, "You know what? I’m going to be mean to you.”

Sylvain gulps, and his thumb loops around his coffee handle. "Please don't."

“Listen up!” Dorothea stands, swaying her hair to the side. She clears her throat, before giving a dramatic series of claps. “Ingrid has had sex with Ashe! With Ignatz! And no doubt, some really good and even eye-raising sex with Claude—”

Sylvain’s hands rush to cover his ears as he yells, “Please, just stop, this is a public—”

“—and even a one-night stand at Abyss with a complete stranger! She’s done it, Sylvain. Multiple times! Her virginity, long lost, to the flow of time. Deal with it!”

“Miss, your banana and berry oatmeal with strawberry yoghurt."

Dorothea sits herself down with a smile. “Oh, thank you, dear.”

"No problem," says the waitress. She turns to place Sylvain's order on his side. “Your avocado and bacon toast, sir.”

Sylvain gives the waitress a tight smile. “You have the most impeccable timing, you know that?”

She smiles. “You’re welcome, sir.”

Ah. A Byleth-type.

As the waitress returns to her duties, Sylvain returns his focus to Dorothea, who occupies herself with her oatmeal. He opens his mouth— but then he closes it, as he begins to process Dorothea’s prior statements. He freezes.

Wait. What?

“Uh, excuse me, miss," says Sylvain, twirling a finger in the manner of a whirlwind. "Wind back?”

Dorothea slurps her drink with a squint. “You sure?”

“Ingrid?" Sylvain leans in closer. _"Abyss?”_

Dorothea nods. "Indeed."

“The nightclub? That super grimy, pretty damn dangerous nightclub?”

Dorothea nods yet again. “Exactly. I took her there.”

Sylvain pauses. “For what?”

“To get drunk and to get laid. Which she did! I was so proud," says Dorothea, her mind going to a far place as she reminisces. She chuckles around her spoon. “To think, my Ingie, having a one-night stand.”

Ingrid. Abyss. One-night stand. Only two words of these match. One is disturbingly out of place. He must have misheard. She must have—

“Ingrid bought a nightstand at Abyss?” says Sylvain. “They sell those there?”

Dorothea’s grin drops as she stares at him. She then plasters on a sickly sweet smile, laced with venom.

“No, sweetie. She had a one-night stand. No transactions. Otherwise, that’d be prostitution," says Dorothea, voice dripped in saccharine honey. She then huffs with a small laugh. "Ingrid went wild that night, but not _that_ wild.”

Sylvain pauses. This still isn't adding up.

“A one-night stand?” Sylvain mutters. He then looks back to Dorothea. “Is that a type of light stand that you rent for the night? That’s a thing?”

Dorothea groans. “Oh, she fucked a stranger, Sylvain. Get over it.”

“Ingrid—” Sylvain's voice raises in a yell, but then settles down to a whisper. "...would never do that.”

“She did do that. I was there,” says Dorothea. “Anyway, it’s about time that you recognise that Ingrid is a sexual being, just like you and I. Sure, she was _such_ a prude, my goodness. But not anymore."

A memory from last night flashes through Sylvain's mind — one that he has replayed over fifty times, despite his guilty conscience attempting to suppress it.

_“Aw, did that hurt, big boy?” says Ingrid, her lips puckered and tone sweet. Her fingers crawl up his arm — oh gods — before she finally squeezes his bicep. She looks up to him, lashes fluttering, and whispers, “Do you want me to kiss it better for you?”_

“Oh, get your mind out of the gutter."

“And _you_ give me a break," says Sylvain. He rubs his nape and sighs. “Gods, how did this veer into this territory? I just wanted advice.”

“Advice?” Dorothea frowns as she spoons some oatmeal into her mouth. “Oh, you’re doomed, honey. I have none to give.”

“Please." Sylvain groans into his palms. "Don’t say that.”

“What else can I say? She’ll be hopping on a plane to Galatea with the man in tow after New Years. It’s too late.”

Sylvain twitches and looks up. “What?”

“What did you expect? She always goes home for her birthday, and she’s brought Claude all this way to Fhirdiad, so she might as well bring him along to meet her family,” says Dorothea, as she spoons oatmeal into her mouth. She then points the empty spoon to Sylvain. "And her family would gobble. Him. Up. Approval ratings through the roof."

The Galatea family. Sylvain knows them well. Well enough to agree with her assessment, despite the fact that he very much _wants_ to disagree.

"And you know what?" Dorothea says, "I think she might just marry him." 

Not missing a beat, Sylvain replies, “No, she won't."

He doesn't know if his statement was out of confidence or fear.

Spoon in mouth, Dorothea gives him a look. She then sighs around it, before plopping it back into her bowl. She seeks out his eyes.

"Look. My advice to you," says Dorothea. “Seduce Ingrid before she leaves for Galatea. Which is in, what? Twelve days? Otherwise, you might just lose her."

“She would never cheat,” says Sylvain. This time, he knows that his statement is said in confidence. “She wouldn’t be Ingrid if she did.”

“I agree! She’s not the type, and I don’t condone cheating," says Dorothea. She sighs, but continues to manage her eye-contact with Sylvain. “What I am saying, however, is to make her feel doubtful. Do that, and she’ll think twice before sliding a ring onto her finger. It might buy you enough time.”

“You’re asking me to woo a girl who I have been in love with for a decade—” Sylvain does a rough calculation in his head, "—in twelve days.”

“I’m not asking you. I’m advising it,” says Dorothea, “Otherwise, bye-bye, Ingrid. Next time you see her, it’ll be at her wedding. Who knows, you might even be a bridesmaid.”

Him as a bridesmaid. That’s an image. But Ingrid marrying a man who is not him is also one. One that he would like to avoid at all costs.

“Oh, but don’t worry. If it comes to that,” says Dorothea, as she grabs a bottle from her make-up bag. She then sprays it on his face. “This makeup mist? It does wonders for puffy red eyes.”

Sylvain flinches, but then considers her words.

He loves Ingrid. He wants her to be happy. He wants to be with her — and the latter does not necessarily coincide with the former. Ingrid can be happy without him, and a better man would be satisfied with just that. But he's a lesser man. A terribly selfish, stupid and dependant one.

But there is a want that supersedes all of his other wants. He _never_ wants to make Ingrid cry. Never, ever. He promised.

So, he—

“But anyway,” says Dorothea, and Sylvain blinks as he is recalled to reality. His attention on her, she continues, “This all happened because you were a lying idiot. I say call her and clear this up.”

With no beat of hesitation, Sylvain says, “No.”

At that, Dorothea stares with a blank glare. The judgement in her eyes too much to bear, Sylvain looks away and nibbles at his toast. He frowns. Cold, already? What about his coffee—

He hears a ring dial.

He looks up.

Dorothea stares right back at him, phone to her ear.

Oh no.

“Dorothea – _no!"_ Sylvain yells, as he clambers out of his seat to grab the phone from her hand. She resists, kicking his thigh. Groaning, he rests on his knees, grabbing his leg — damn it, not the thigh. He tries to rise, but is smacked by a spoon. Goddess, his _headache._ Still, he needs to stop her. So, he yells, "Goddess be damned — put the damn phone down!”

“No!" she yells back, continuing to wack him with the spoon. She then hops out of her chair, rushing to build distance between them. "You will stop being a coward and explain yourself to Ingrid!”

"No, I can't!” yells Sylvain, as he zips past another customer, in pursuit of her. His face burns red — goddess, _everyone_ is staring. He begs, quietly, "Just – please, stop, okay?"

"I don't think I will," says Dorothea, shaking her head. She maintains her distance as she points the spoon to him. "Sylvain! I have supported you for the past nine years. _Nine._ Babies have grown up to learn algebra, geography, whatever, in that timespan! Goddess, you two could have even had your own kids by now!"

Despite himself, he freezes. Damn it, now is not the time to be imagining what a family with Ingrid would be like—

"And yet! You have done nothing! Nothing! So for once in your life, will you—" Dorothea stops. She looks at her phone.

The ringing has stopped.

“...Why didn’t she pick up?” Dorothea frowns. "She always picks up when I call.”

He doesn't reply. Instead, he sits down on the ground and wheezes. He's never been this beat since army training.

“Oh! Oh, right,” says Dorothea. She laughs. “Her phone’s still broken."

He melts into the floor, stares be damned.

* * *

Ingrid🧑⚖️  
  
**Today** 12:15 PM  
Finally fixed my phone. UGH!  
  
Also haggled it down by 30%. Impressed?  
  
Only 30%🤭 ??  
  
🙄 🖕  
  
Anyway, are you free this week?  
  
Claude and I would like to have lunch/dinner together, whenever fits your schedule  
  
**Today** 10:35 PM  
Let you know tomorrow, I'm not sure about my schedule yet  
  


_Why does he have to co_

* * *

“Ingrid wants to have lunch with you and Claude?”

Sylvain doesn’t look up, content with stabbing his salad croutons with a plastic fork. “Yep,” he says, “Help me come up with an excuse?”

In response, Dimitri pinches his brow and sighs. He then leans closer, putting on his best 'stern father' voice, and says, “Sylvain. I truly believe honesty would be the best policy.”

“Hey, you lied to Ingrid too.”

Groaning, Dimitri smacks himself back into his chair, before then throwing his hands into the air.

“Oh for— I lied for _your_ sake!" yells Dimitri. He then shuffles forward to point a finger in Sylvain's face. "And now we’re both under the category of ‘people who have lied to Ingrid’. Which is a category that I never wished to be a part of ever again!”

Despite his sullen mood, Sylvain gives a small grin. It's always so easy to rile him up.

Dimitri leans back into his seat, a hand resting on his brow. His other hand reaches for his cup of chamomile. As he nurses the tea, he grumbles, “This is absolutely ridiculous, I cannot believe...”

Sylvain chuckles, before then looking outside the window. It is an objectively uninteresting sight — skyscrapers, pigeons and people made tiny by perspective. It is not for the sights, however, that Sylvain and Dimitri choose to spend their lunch hour in the CBD. It is the convenience of distance from Civic and the variety of food, although Dimitri prefers the former factor while Sylvain emphasises the latter. Today, however, he has chosen a rather boring dish — a caesar salad to match with his equally dull friend. Nice, but dull.

Sylvain looks back to Dimitri, who is still grumbling under his breath. Sylvain throws his way a loose, noncommittal grin as he says, “Should I fake that I’m sick?”

His eyes now gazing over the cityscape, Dimitri shakes his head as he sips his tea. “You’re rarely ever sick, and when you are, Ingrid is always there to nurse you. It’s hardly a productive excuse if your intention is to avoid her.”

“I don’t want to avoid _her,”_ says Sylvain, sinking deeper into his seat. “I want to avoid _him.”_

Looking back to Sylvain, Dimitri stabs at his salad and brings a forkful to his mouth. He munches on the lettuce as he says, “Then tell her so.”

Sylvain sinks even deeper into his seat, hands flopping to the side and his legs stretching out to invade Dimitri's own space. He says, “No.”

A flash of irritation crosses Dimitri’s face. He opens his mouth, but then clamps it shut. He backs down, choosing instead to occupy himself with his salad. “Very well then.”

Sylvain huffs with a smile. Look at him. He’s learning. Tapping the side of the seat with his fingers, Sylvain lets himself space out, gazing out the window at the objectively uninteresting sight.

His thoughts wander. He tries to steer his mind's direction to think of mundane thoughts, such as that cute dog who he pet on his way to work, or how he hasn't been to the gym in over three weeks, or about near empty fridge. Despite his efforts, his mind U-turns to think of Ingrid, but his heart and head both hurt when he thinks of her. And so, he comprises with his brain — combine Ingrid with a mundane Sunday breakfast (though on second thought, that breakfast was decidedly _not_ mundane).

“You know, Dorothea told me to be honest as well.”

Dimitri nods as he shoves another forkful of salad into his mouth. He says, “That is very wise of her to say.”

Sylvain glimpses at Dimitri's bowl. It's already half-empty. He snorts. Even Ingrid is a slower eater than him.

Ingrid.

Ugh.

Sylvain sinks into his chair yet again. He stares at Dimitri, who is drinking his tea, as he says, “But she also told me to just get Ingrid to cheat on him with me. Thoughts?”

Instinct kicking in, Sylvain kicks his chair away from Dimitri, as his friend sputters his chamomile tea all over their shared table. He cradles his own salad in his arms as he watches Dimitri struggle to regain himself. He snorts. 

If there was one thing that Sylvain appreciated about Faerghus' compulsory military service, it would be the superb reaction time it beat into its trainees.

“What in the— cheating? That is horrible advice!” Dimitri says, coughing as he does so.

Grabbing a dozen or so serviettes, Dimitri then wipes down the mess caused by Sylvain’s statement. Sylvain, in turn, stares, fork in mouth. Now, he _could_ help, and he probably _should_ help. But he doesn't want to. It's more amusing this way. Is this how Dorothea felt? Then again, she seemed more disgusted than amused.

Chucking the serviettes into the rubbish bin by his side, Dimitri clears his throat before he continues, “Ingrid would never cheat. You know that.”

Sylvain stabs at his salad. He looks down and mutters, “...I know. That’s one of the innumerable things that I love about her.”

In response, Dimitri’s lips tighten into a strict line.

“...You didn’t tell me that you were in love with her again,” he says, as he twists his engagement ring. “Why is that?”

Sylvain pauses as his fork reaches his mouth. Looking down, he begins to chew, then swallowing his food with a heavy gulp. He sighs. There’s a time for dishonesty to avoid certain situations, but this doesn’t warrant that. So, he chooses honesty.

“That would be because it was five years ago.”

Dimitri stops fiddling with his ring and looks up to meet Sylvain's eyes with his mouth ajar. Then, the tight line of Dimitri's lips twist into a once familiar smile. A smile that he never wanted to see again, because that smile is too reminiscent of the time when Dimitri did not feel like Dimitri.

Dimitri then mutters, that smile still on his lips, “A case of bad timing, then.”

Sylvain nods, then letting the silence between them stretch and coil, warping into tension, because he doesn’t know what to say or what to do. He can't even employ cookie tactics.

“Sylvain?”

Sylvain looks up to meet Dimitri’s steady gaze and feels the urge to recoil, fiddle or flinch, because his gaze is so honest, so sincere, so true. He won't, though, because Dimitri deserves better than a bad joke or a change of topic, not when he's trying to reach out to him. And what kind of friend would he be if he didn’t respect that?

Sylvain holds his gaze as Dimitri says, “I’m truly sorry for all the trouble that I caused you. To Dedue, to Ingrid. To everyone, really.”

Sylvain pauses. For all of the trouble _he_ caused? Dimitri? His jaw tightens and he feels a hot flash of anger wash over him — not at Dimitri, but the mere fact that he felt the need to say such a thing.

“What are you saying? It wasn’t your fault,” he says, scooting closer to Dimitri. Before, he struggled to hold Dimitri's gaze, but he finds it now to be the opposite, with Dimitri shrinking under his stare. He continues, “Nobody blames you for what happened. You were the victim. Don’t ever, ever apologise for that.”

Despite his best attempts at genuine assurances, Dimitri's eyes still darken with something that he can never recognise. Is it guilt? Shame? Regret? Maybe it's all of those things at once, but even so, he struggles to reconcile his perspective with Dimitri's. It's not his fault. It never was. Whatever Dimitri is feeling, it shouldn't be him, but rather those corrupt, disloyal murderers who deserve to rot in their prison cells, _not—_

“Still, I have been unavailable to you, for which I am sorry,” says Dimitri. His darkened gaze lightens into something that he can recognise: sincerity, which Dimitri always wears so well. He resumes his habit of twisting his ring. “I truly value our friendship, after all. To have made you feel that you could not confide in me, while I keep relying on your counsel, truly I—”

Sylvain reaches out to grab his friend’s wrist. He tugs Dimitri's hand away from his other hand, and continues to handle it.

“Hey. Who said that? Aren’t I confiding in you right this moment?” Sylvain smiles as Dimitri gives him a flickering glance. “Sure, I didn’t tell you until now, but that was just all bad timing!"

This was true, although there was another factor in play: Dimitri's infatuation with Byleth.

How can a man seek comfort about his unrequited love to a man who, without fail, unabashedly gushes about his fiancée at the mere mention of anything semi-related? But Dimitri doesn't need to know that yet. He's going to bring it up during his wedding speech, after all.

"Anyway, I trust you. You’re one of the greatest friends that I have," says Sylvain. "I trust you with anything and everything. Got that?”

Dimitri blinks. Then, his tight lips loosen into a truly beautiful smile and— Sylvain flinches away, with his elbow jerking upwards. Gah. It is blinding to the eye.

“Thank you, Sylvain. You are ever a true friend," says Dimitri, still showing that smile without a thought to Sylvain's cornea. He reaches out covering Sylvain's hand with his own. "I, too, trust you with anything and everything.”

Sylvain grimaces as he winces away— and so his one true weakness strikes again!

While Mercedes could ruin him just by the sheer number of compliments she gave, Dimitri's rarer compliments destroyed him just as effectively, because of one key feature — the true awe and sincerity that he conveyed. With his compliments, Dimitri could somehow make someone feel as if there wasn't anything truer than his faith, confidence and belief in them. You were as he saw you – which is why his compliments were absolutely terrifying.

Sylvain shudders. How in the world does Byleth manage? Then again, she's probably built up an immunity, but _he_ hasn't. His skin is burning red and he needs to fiddle with something, anything, or make a bad joke or burst out laughing, because this is _too_ mortifying—

A ringtone interrupts his thoughts.

“Please, whoever it is, just take the call,” says Sylvain, melting into his seat. He covers his face with his hands, and feels how hot he is. “I need a break from this heart-to-heart. Otherwise, I'll die."

At that, Dimitri’s blinding smile settles down into an amused grin. He says, “Very well, then.”

Grabbing his fork to resume his lunch, Sylvain watches as a grinning Dimitri takes the phone without even looking at the screen. His grin, however, drops.

“Oh. Hello, Ingrid.”

Ingrid?

Ingrid.

Oh no. 

A crouton travels down Sylvain’s esophagus in a very peculiar way, but he resists the urge to choke, cough and clear his throat. Instead, he reaches out for his coffee and chugs it down —anything to stop from Ingrid’s ridiculously good hearing from noticing his presence. Despite his efforts, however, he can feel his face turning blue and his nose struggling to breath, and so he snatches the leftover liquid of Dimitri’s tea, chugging it down.

“What are you—” Dimitri gasps, as he swats Sylvain’s hand from his cup. “Sylvain! Where are your manners?"

Sylvain drops the empty plastic cup. He stares. Then, he coughs out: “S–Seriously? After all of my effort?”

In response, Dimitri places his phone further away from his body and whispers, “You said that you _weren’t_ avoiding her...!And yet what is this behaviour? Are you thirteen? No, you’re thirty...!”

Sylvain coughs out a final wheeze. He then grabs a serviette to wipe his mouth. He whispers back, voice muffled by the napkin, “She caught me off guard, okay?"

Sighing, Dimitri rolls his eyes as he returns the phone to his ear. After a few minutes of speaking about whatever with Ingrid — gods, he can’t even eavesdrop, what with his heart hammering in his ears — Dimitri finally says, “She wants to talk with you.”

Sylvain groans. Quietly. He then whispers, “Tell her that I’m in the restroom…!”

“I think we’ve already established that you are not, in fact, in the restroom.” Dimitri sighs. He then shoves the phone to Sylvain’s ear, and he hears a familiar, _“Sylvain?”_

At her voice, Sylvain can't help but feel a hit of dopamine rush at him, coupled with adrenaline.

“I–Ingrid, my good friend!" His voice cracks. Damn it, keep it cool. He clears his throat before continuing, "What can I do to help you on this lovely, lovely Monday afternoon?”

_“You’re acting weird. What’s wrong?”_

Damn it. He knew she would know. He chooses his next play: half-truths.

“I nearly choked to death because of a crouton. So yeah, I’m a little out of it.”

_“Oh. My. Goddess.”_

Sylvain then hears how her lips form into a smile. He smiles too. A wide, toothy grin. Sylvain leans back into his chair and fiddles with the end of his tie, flipping and twisting it. “So, uh, what did you need?”

 _“Do you have your schedule figured out yet?”_ says Ingrid. _“Sorry if I’m rushing you. Claude and I have a lot to fit in during our time here, and it’s hard figuring out when everyone’s available.”_

Sylvain stops twisting his necktie. “Sorry, not sure yet. I know it’ll be a busy week though, being the end of the year and all. I’ll let you know when I can, yeah?”

_“Got it. We can plan something for next week, if that suits you better— oh, sorry. Just a moment.”_

Muttering a small, ‘ _no problem’_ , Sylvain lulls the phone to his chest and watches as Dimitri leans in closer with a glare. 

Dimitri whispers, “Lying again?”

Sylvain shakes his head, mouthing: _I AM busy._ He then looks up, before whispering, “...Sort of.”

Dimitri massages his temple with a quiet sigh. Sylvain returns the phone to his ear as he hears Ingrid’s voice.

_“I’ve gotta go now. Our bus is here. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”_

Something inside Sylvain panics.

Maybe it is the nerves of talking to a woman who he both wants and doesn’t want to be talking to. Maybe it is the adrenaline rush. Even so—

“Bye, I love you!”

—why? Why did he have to say _that?_

But then, warm laughter and the gentle hush of her voice greet his thudding ears. 

_“Ha. Love you too, Sylvain.”_

And then, she hangs up. 

Sylvain sinks into his chair and looks up to the ceiling. He whispers, “...I should seduce her.”

Dimitri pinches his brow and sighs. “No, Sylvain. You most definitely should not.”

Sylvain shrugs his shoulders with crossed arms. “Hey, it could work. Claude is kind of like me, after all. Who knows, I might actually be her type.”

His words sound far-fetched even to himself. He knows Ingrid’s type. Sweet, kind dorks with a passion for the arts, whether it be painting or literature — but then again, Claude doesn't seem to fit this category. Who knows, maybe he has a soft side to him. Not that Sylvain cares out to find out.

“...Kind of like you, you say?”

“Yep. But,” he says, pausing to channel his inner Dorothea. He sways his imaginary diva hair with his hand. “'Better in every way, sweetie'."

“Perhaps you should take a break from seeking out Dorothea’s counsel," says Dimitri. "She doesn't seem to be doing your self-esteem any favours.”

Sylvain hums. "You might be right."

“...Still,” mutters Dimitri, “it’s interesting that you say that.”

Sylvain narrows his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” says Dimitri, as he stands. He then grabs his plastic bowl of salad and throws it into the garbage can. “Regardless, our lunch break is over. Let’s go back.” 

Grunting, Sylvain gets up from his chair.

Back to work.

* * *

Ingrid🧑⚖️  
  
**Today** 3:15 PM  
So we had lunch at Dedue's today!  
  
Shame you couldn't join us  
  
BECAUSE IT WAS ABSOLUTELY AMAZING  
  
I literally ate everything on the menu  
  
Ingrid  
  
I LITERALLY believe you  
  
And that's concerning  
  
Whatever lol  
  
Anyway, Claude really enjoyed it too, which was really nice😊  
  


_could you stop mentioning h_

* * *

“I am not your spy.”

Sylvain shuffles on his bar stool, adjusting his seating. Creaky old thing. He whirls his glass of whiskey, ice clinking. “Hey, I never said you were.”

Wiping down the already clean bar counter for the third time, Dedue doesn't bother to look at him.

"You asked me to tell you everything about the events at lunch. That is requesting intel,” says Dedue. He stops wiping and looks at Sylvain with a frown. “Frankly, you are acting as a stalker would. It is highly disturbing.”

Sylvain groans into his hands. “I’ll take the spy comment, but please, drop the stalker accusation. I feel disgusting.”

“Perhaps you should," says Dedue. As he watches Sylvain grimace, he offers a subtle grin.

"Fine. I'm a gross stalker. But at least tell me this," says Sylvain. "Your thoughts on Claude?"

Dedue's grin widens. “I like him.”

"Great, as does everybody," Sylvain mumbles. As his lips touch the rim of his glass, he continues, “So. Any advice for this pathetic stalker?" 

“I would advise patience," says Dedue.

Sylvain frowns. “Patience is how I got myself in this mess in the first place.”

Dedue shakes his head. “In your case, it was cowardice. Not patience.”

“Ouch.”

“Regardless,” Dedue then glances at Sylvain's glass. “You should order some food, lest you upset your stomach.”

Sylvain mutters around his drink, “Later. I’m still thinking.”

"I'll cook something light for you, then," says Dedue.

He throws a towel over his shoulder, before opening the door behind him to enter the kitchen, leaving Sylvain alone with his thoughts.

“Excuse me, sir. Is Mr. Molinaro here?”

At the youthful voice, Sylvain’s brows narrow as he glances over his shoulder. He finds a child, holding only a reusable shopping bag, staring at him. Sylvain takes note of the child’s appearance. Second-hand clothing, discoloured sneakers and ash grey hair with dark skin. Oh. One of Dedue's mentees.

Giving the kid a friendly smile, Sylvain swirls back on his bar stool. “Dedue! You have a customer!”

As Dedue returns, he gives the boy a once-over before greeting him in their mutual tongue, a small smile on his lips. He then takes a meal ticket from the boy.

As the two speak in their mother tongue, Sylvain can’t help but eavesdrop. He doesn't understand a damn thing, sure, but he's listening for the sound of it. The lack of _f_ and _th,_ for example, and the presence of completely foreign sounds. For example, while he's no linguistics expert —he only knows Srengese for work reasons— but he's pretty sure that the semi-choking sound of theirs is called a 'Guttural R'.

_“Rhuba lu mur en tatin. Pori nugget, his er morhen?”_

That's the sound. Like he's choking on his own spit, but in a beautiful way. Fascinating.

As Sylvain watches Dedue pass the boy his takeaway order, he smiles.

“You know what,” he says, “I’ll have whatever he’s having. Smells great.”

Dedue pauses. He then shakes his head. “You can’t have that.”

Sylvain swirls his glass as he tilts his head to the side. “What, does it have spinach in it or something?”

Spinach. His nemesis in food form. Countless times in his childhood did he throw it out in his backyard compost bin, feed it to the family dog (Sally, bless her heart) or scrape it onto Ingrid’s plate. And every time she lectured him —without fail — it would be lodged in between her two front teeth. Hilarious.

Ingrid.

He bites back a sigh.

Dedue presses a palm against his lips, but Sylvain sees the crinkling of his eyes, which reveals his grin.

He says, “It’s the kid’s set. Chicken nuggets and fries.”

“Dude.” Sylvain places a hand to his chest and maintains an intense stare-off. “I love chicken nuggets.”

He then hears laughter from behind him. Grinning, Sylvain spins around on his bar stool and finds the boy’s lips twitched into a small smile.

The boy says, “Aren’t you a bit old for that, sir?”

In response, Sylvain presses a hand against his chest. “Too old for chicken nuggets? Never."

The child's grin widens and he gives a small huff of laughter. "I guess so."

Before long, the boy then gives his farewells and exits the premises, and Sylvain spins back to face Dedue.

“Good to see that I wasn’t the only customer,” says Sylvain, a smile on his lips. “Though, I suppose Tuesdays aren’t typically busy.”

Dedue sighs through his nose. “It’s peak holiday season.”

“To be fair, you haven’t exactly done a good job of advertising this place,” says Sylvain. “It could use a bit of a clean up as well.”

Sylvain gives the place a glance-over—creaky bar stools, battered tables, tacky retro posters and peculiar statues just placed wherever, with no rhyme or reason. Like the cheese wheel statue. Something about it screams Dimitri's influence, but also maybe Byleth. Likely, a gift from the both of them, which Dedue was too polite to refuse.

He then looks up. The lights also are too dim, more suited to a dingy basement than a proper restaurant. Which it was before Dedue's purchase, but still. Considering the quality of the food, this place deserves a shiny new polish, and Sylvain _would_ support that. If only Dedue would let him.

He sips at his glass. “It’s good that the kids are actually using the meal tickets, though.”

“As am I,” says Dedue. He then frowns. “Although I wish that they would be more judicious in their choice of meal, especially in regard to nutrition.”

“Can’t blame them. Chicken nuggets are great,” says Sylvain, chuckling. Then, hearing the entry detector chime, he looks over his shoulder. “Seems like you’ve got another customer.”

Sylvain watches as nice, smooth legs descend from the stairwell, and feeling light-headed from the whisky, he lets out a whistle. Dedue’s glare digs into the back of his head. He pays no mind, however, because those legs are very, very nice and deserve the admiration.

Sylvain blinks.

But they are also very, very familiar legs. His eyes gradually travel upwards, appreciating the equally as nice torso along the way, before landing on the woman's face.

His butt nearly slips off the bar stool.

“M–Mercedes,” Dedue stutters out, his tone betraying his usually stoic demeanour.

“Hello, Dedue. Sorry for not calling in advance, I hope you don’t mind. And,” says Mercedes, chuckling as she looks over to Sylvain. “Hello, Sylvain. What a coincidence."

* * *

“Oh goodness,” says Mercedes, “You are a very, very sad man.” 

Sylvain winces as he bites into an ice cube. Grabbing his glass, he swirls another cube into his mouth and begins to chew yet again. It helps distract from the more painful of the two: her honesty. 

Sinking into his bar stool, Sylvain mutters, “Pretty much.” He then pauses and turns to face Mercedes, who is swirling her own glass of red wine, lips quirked in amusement. He matches her with his own bittersweet grin. “Any advice for a sad, sad man such as myself?” 

Placing her wine glass down onto their shared bar counter, Mercedes cups his hand with her own. 

She says, “Honesty.” 

Sylvain reaches out for his glass and chugs another cube into his mouth. He bites. Hard. Then, he mumbles, “Can I say no to that?” 

Mercedes’ grasp on his hand tightens. “No.”

Sylvain winces, then looks to his glass. Damn. His ice reserves have run out. Alcohol, too. He needs both, now, lest he actually begin to consider Mercedes’ words. What a nightmare that would be. 

Clinking his glass against the beer tap, he says to Dedue with a lazy grin, “A refill, thanks.”

Dedue sighs as he takes the glass.

“What Mercedes is saying is true,” he says, pouring the whiskey into the glass. 

It is a beautiful, beautiful brown rainbow — and yeah, he’s tipsy, isn't he? 

Dedue places the drink in front of him, and Sylvain ditches his cold chicken nugget for the beautiful, beautiful brown liquid. 

Dedue says, “You cannot escape this. Tell Ingrid everything at the St. Cichol party.” 

Whirling a cube around his mouth, Sylvain then cracks into it. Ouch. But yum. “You do realise that would make your party a lot more awkward, right?” 

At that, Dedue stops wiping the wine glass in his hands. He mutters, “After, then.” 

With a snort, Sylvain takes another sip. Ah, bliss. Tipsy, tipsy bliss. 

“Oh?” Mercedes tilts her head, twinkling eyes seeking Dedue’s. She says, “You’re hosting a party?” 

With pinched brows, Dedue grumbles, “I lost the annual raffle.”

“Which is _our_ win. Looking forward to seeing what you cook up," says Sylvain, laughing. He then directs his smile to Mercedes. “Your plans?” 

“Oh, nothing much," she says, as she takes a sip of her wine. “I’ll just be spending the day with my foster family.” 

Sylvain freezes. 

What?

“...What?" He searches her expression. It betrays nothing. “Why?”

“I thought that I should show my face," replies Mercedes. She looks down at her glass. "It’s been years, after all.”

“You owe them nothing,” says Sylvain. He nudges his hand against hers. “You know that, right?”

"Nothing is a strong word. They did feed and clothe me, after all."

'And completely neglected everything else', is what Sylvain wants to say. But he won't. Not here. So, closing then releasing his fist, he says, “What about Annette? Can’t you spend the day with her?”

“Oh, I couldn't do that to Annie. Her parents have finally reconciled, after all. They’ll be going to the St. Cichol carols as a family again. Just like when she was a child,” says Mercedes. She chuckles. “She seemed so excited. I just couldn’t."

Sylvain clenches his jaw. “That’s—” 

“Come to me, then.” 

Sylvain nearly spits out his drink, but the confusion beats out the shock. He looks to Dedue, who appears mortified at his own words, with his jaw clenched shut and eyes widened. He can't blame him – that's a line that should come from his mouth, not Dedue's. 

Seeking a second opinion, Sylvain then looks over to Mercedes and— his eyes widen also.

There is something about the look in her eyes. He's seen that look, once. Well. Not just once, actually. Many times, but so long ago, that he's blocked it out to the extent that he can only really recall the one time. 

When he first told her about his feelings for her. 

Oh. 

The ice shatters at the back of his teeth, and — ow. _Ow_. That actually, really, _really_ hurt. He cradles his cheek. 

“Apologies, I misspoke. I meant, ‘my party’,” says Dedue, as he looks down to the wine glass. He is trying to pass it off, but the fast tempo of his glass-wiping betrays him. He then clears his throat. “Pardon.” 

Sylvain watches as Mercedes merely nurses her wine. She then releases her lips from the glass with a soft exhale, and her rouge lipstick stains its rim. Sylvain then glances to Dedue – and yep. There it is. He is transfixed. 

Sylvain returns his gaze to his own glass and bites his cheek. 

This. Is. Awkward. 

“...Well, thank you for the very kind offer, Dedue,” says Mercedes, as she swirls her wine glass. The liquid bounces up to the rim, blending in with the rouge stain. Leaning on her palm, her gaze travels to Sylvain. She chuckles. “But wouldn't that make things much more difficult for our dear friend here?” 

“Me?” Sylvain blinks, pointing a finger to himself. Then, the cogs turn in his brain. Right. Ingrid + Mercedes + in the same room = not a good situation for him. But: “I don’t care.”

He means it. After all, what kind of man would he be, if he let a woman he once loved spend St. Cichol day with abusive assholes, just because it would inconvenience him? 

A man who deserves to love no one, that’s who. 

Mercedes pats his shoulder with a laugh. “Oh, I’ll consider it, then.”

The two then return to drinking their respective beverages, with Dedue standing watch over them. A silence falls upon them. 

He wouldn't describe it as uncomfortable, per say, but neither would he describe it as comfortable. And so, Sylvain tries to think of a topic. It should be easy.They’ve been chatting with no silence for the past hour, after all. Except it isn’t. Because this is really, _really_ awkward for him.

And who can blame him? He's witnessing his ex-lover and his good friend making goo-goo eyes at each other. 

Then, Dedue says, “...Would you like a refill, Mercedes?”

Sylvain doesn't even bother suppressing his sigh of relief. 

In response, Mercedes blinks as she looks upon her empty wine glass. “My, I can’t believe I didn’t even notice,” she says. Mercedes chuckles as she tilts her glass towards Dedue. “Thank you. I’ll have another.”

The glass meets with the bottle of red wine, and Sylvain’s watches with a hazy gaze. Giving a small grunt, he closes his eyes and tries to ward away the haze settling in his mind. He’s teetering the line between tipsy and drunk. Hopefully, he doesn’t wake up with another hangover. Tomorrow is a work day, after all. 

_Crash._

Eyes flinching wide open, Sylvain rushes to confirm the source of the shattering. He finds Mercedes’ white (uh oh) dress soaked in red wine, with her glass shattered by the feet of their bar stools.

Sylvain blinks. “So what happened during the three seconds that I happened to close my eyes?” 

“I–I dropped my glass,” says Mercedes, “Oh goddess, I am so, so, sorry! I am so clumsy, oh, I—” 

“It is alright,” says Dedue, as he opens the door flap to walk to the glass shards. “Rather, I am sorry about your dress. It suits you well.”

At that, Mercedes freezes, and Sylvain watches with a raised brow. Not to be outdone, however, he produces a black handkerchief and presses it onto Mercedes’ palm. Contrary to his expectations, she actually accepts it, pressing it against her chest. He smiles. That flustered, huh?

“I agree with Dedue. Go salvage whatever you can. You look gorgeous in it, after all.” Sylvain winks as he points to the kitchen beyond the bar. “Don’t bother going to the restroom. It’s shared with a nightclub, so I’m sure you can imagine the state of things. The kitchen is your best shot.”

Dedue nods from below them, as he begins to gather the glass with a dustpan. “There's dishwashing liquid.”

“I’ll do that, then,” says Mercedes, as she hops down from the bar stool. She offers Dedue a guilty smile as she whirls around the bar, opening the door flap and entering the kitchen.

“So.” Sylvain looks down on Dedue from his stool, drink in hand. He swirls the concoction, and the ice clinks. “You and Mercedes, huh?”

Dedue’s expression tenses before he reverts back to his usual stoic expression. Again, however, his fast pace with the dustpan reveals all. 

He says, “There is no such thing.” 

Sylvain snorts. “Come on. Don’t you think I have the right to know?”

Dedue pauses. He then looks up to Sylvain. “If there is one thing you must know,” he says, “it is that whatever ‘Mercedes and I’ is, it is a recent development. That, I swear.”

"Don't worry. I know that."

“Good, then.” Dedue’s jaw clenches. He pauses before his next words flow from his mouth. “It would never work out, anyway." 

Sylvain frowns. “Why do you say that?”

“For reasons that I am sure you are well-acquainted with.”

Sylvain wishes he didn’t know the answer to that. But he does, because there's only one possibility. 

Emile. Her brother. Her priority. 

He also wishes that he wasn’t so bitter about it. Guilt twisting into irritation, Sylvain lightly nudges Dedue’s head with his foot. He receives a glare. 

“Hey, it’s what you get for reminding me about my failed relationship.” Sylvain shrugs his shoulders. He then leans closer in his bar stool, eyes watching Dedue. “Still, you should try.”

Try harder than he did, at least. 

Dedue stands up, moving over to the bin. 

"He is serving a life sentence. Unless he is transferred to a prison in Faerghus —which is impossible— then any relationship we have will be forever long distance," says Dedue, as he dusts the shards into the bin. The pinch of his brow tightens. “That is not sustainable.” 

Sylvain leans on his chin and watches. “Why can’t _you_ move, then?” 

“I have a responsibility to the children of Duscur. They need all the support they can get here,” says Dedue, “and if the state is not willing, then our non-profit will provide them with that support.” 

Sylvain offers, “Dimitri could change that.”

“That would be years on from now, and will be dependent on whether he is elected,” says Dedue. He sighs as he ties the bin bag. "Who knows what the world will be like, then.” 

Sylvain doesn’t reply. He merely continues to nurse his drink. 

_Ring ring ring._

“Hey, a customer! Congrats.”

Dedue ignores him. He picks up the phone. “This is Molinaro’s.” 

Sylvain sips his drink—

“Oh,” says Dedue, and he glances over to Sylvain. “Ingrid.”

—and spits it out onto his white seventy dollar shirt. 

This time, however, he doesn't attempt to conceal it with more drinking. Because, well, there’s only whisky in his immediate reach, and that would be a very, very bad idea. Instead, he backs off, rushing to the utmost corner of the tiny bar, coughing into his elbow while staring at a puzzled Dedue. 

“...Takeaway then,” says Dedue, his stare still on Sylvain as he jots down her order on a notepad. “Feel free to pick it up in twenty or so minutes.” 

Sylvain whispers from the corner, “Twenty? Dedue...!” 

He is ignored once again. Then, the door of the kitchen swings open, and Mercedes comes out with a sheepish grin. 

Oh no. 

“Oh, Dedue, I’m so sorry, but can I borrow some table salt or baking soda?" says Mercedes. Right behind Dedue. "Apparently, that’s more effective.” 

No, no. It’s fine, Ingrid has really good hearing, but she can’t possibly hear—

“Yes, Mercedes is here.”

She can. But it’s okay. It’s cool. She only knows that Mercedes is here, not that he’s here, let alone that he's also with Mercedes. It’s fine. 

Then, the gentle lilt of Mercedes’ voice says, “Oh, hello, Ingrid! I must say, today has been full of coincidences. I even bumped into—” 

Sylvain wildly flails his arms as he yells, “ _Gah!"_

“—my old neighbour, who I haven’t seen in years! It was truly so wonderful,” says Mercedes. She grins as she meets Sylvain’s panicked glare. “Oh, that? I think it was from the nightclub upstairs. I'm surprised you managed to hear it!" 

Sylvain sinks down to his knees and releases a groan. Quietly. 

“We’ll see you soon, then. Bye, Ingrid,” says Mercedes, as she returns the phone to Dedue.

She looks to Sylvain and saunters over, bunching her dress as she goes down on her knees. "That was silly of you, don't you think?" 

“She thinks that I’m too busy for dinner, lunch, anything,” says Sylvain. “If she knows that I lied, and was even with you, she’d wrangle my throat.” 

Mercedes hums, a finger to her chin. “Hm. Maybe you should stop lying, then.”

Sylvain's fingers knead at his temple. He's definitely going to have a headache.

“It’s pathological. I can’t help it.” 

Having finished the phone call, Dedue walks over. He stands over the two of them, sending a glare to Sylvain. 

He says, “That is cowardly.”

Sylvain glares back. “Says you. You’re the coward." 

Dedue looks away as Mercedes gives him a curious glance. 

Sylvain snorts. Coward. Jumping up to his feet, Sylvain treks over to the counter. He goes through his wallet to place a one-hundred dollar bill in the tip bucket, before shrugging on his coat and gloves. 

As he passes by Dedue, he gives him a pat on the shoulder. He says, “I’ll pay my bill later with a bank transfer, yeah?” 

Dedue's brows narrow. “But you just paid.”

“That,” Sylvain takes his first step on the staircase, “was a tip, my friend.” 

As he rushes up the stairs, Sylvain hears Mercedes' soft voice raised in a yell, “Oh wait, Sylvain—”

“—Dedue, that covers Mercedes’ bill, okay?" he yells back, before adding on the only word he knows in Duscurian: _“Tuska!”_

'Goodbye'. 

The restaurant door clangs shut.

* * *

Ingrid🧑⚖️  
  
**Today** 8:41 PM  
Judge all you want:  
  
[](https://crosbyparkmealsonwheels.com.au/dev/wp-content/uploads/2019/08/National-MoW-Day-Meal.jpg)  
I had to go back!! I couldn't help myself  
  
And what did YOU have for dinner? Can't beat this  
  


_chicken nuggets_

* * *

_“Hello, Alex Campeau here with FBC late night news. Border tensions between Leicester and Almyra have revived, with claims of…”_

Sylvain does not open his eyes.

Instead, he focuses on the numbness in his head and the weakness of his limbs. Sensation overload. Why did he think it was a good idea to run with whiskey in his bloodstream and thirty chicken nuggets nestled in his stomach? Goddess, his head hurts, he stinks of sweat and is still so exhausted, despite the fact that he's been home for three hours already.

_"...The border of Fódlan's Throat has been disputed by Leicester and Almyra since before diplomatic relations were even established in Continental Year..."_

Sylvain opens his eyes.

He should shower.

Sweat, alcohol and chicken nuggets do not smell nice when combined, after all.

He needs to shower.

But there's a want —a drunk want— that is battling with his needs. 

He wants to see Ingrid. He wants to hear her voice, see her smile, touch her body. It's the alcohol talking, he knows. That, combined with loneliness, despite the fact he's seen literally everyone but her. Oh, and Felix too, but he doesn't count.

 _She_ counts.

_"Experts have raised concerns of the particularly volatile reaction of both nations, warning that if de-escalation efforts are not made, conflict may..."_

Sylvain thinks over the words of his friends.

Dorothea said that he should steal her away. Or: Be honest.

Dimitri recommended he shouldn't do what Dorothea said. And: Be honest.

Dedue told him that patience was key and that he was in fact, practicing cowardice. Also: Be honest.

Then, Mercedes advised that he just tell her everything. Again: Be honest.

Honesty. As if he didn't want to be honest with Ingrid.

Sylvain loves being honest with her. When he is, Ingrid is so accepting, so warm and so gentle with him. But when honesty could mean that he would lose her forever, he'd rather lie for the rest of his life.

But.

What if lying also meant that?

Sylvain blinks.

Oh goddess. Was _this_ what everyone trying to get at?

"Huh," he whispers to himself, "I'm an idiot."

He's an idiot. What is he doing? Lying to Ingrid? When has that ever ended well? Never! It always ended with her fury raining down on him or—

Crying. And he promised. Oh goddess. He needs to be honest with Ingrid. And he's going to do it now.

Because when's a better time to be honest when you're drunk.

"Hey Sitri, turn the T.V off!" he yells, as he gets up from the sofa.

Sylvain looks for his phone, finding it atop his ottoman. His hand hovering over it, Sylvain gulps, but then he snatches it and storms to his balcony.

He needs to do this before he sobers up.

The cold winter wind blows at his hand and Sylvain's fingers tremble as his thumb hovers over Ingrid's name. It's not from the cold. He’s a born and bred Faerghus man, after all. He's nervous as all hell. Damn it, just—

He presses the button.

The phone rings, and its blare stands out in the silence of the night.

Then, she picks up.

He presses the phone against his ear and lets out a shivery breath. His voice cracks as he says, "Oh, uh, hey, Ingrid—"

_"—Hey, Sylvain. Sorry, Ingrid's sleeping right now."_

Sylvain freezes.

 _"Want me to relay a message?"_ says Claude.

He gives a small laugh. Wow. This is really happening?

_"You alright?"_

The Goddess must really hate him. The moment he decides to be honest, this?

"Oh, no, I'm just so giddy," says Sylvain, "and no, you don't need to tell her anything. I'm just a drunk idiot."

He shouldn't blame the Goddess. Mercedes would disapprove. Plus, it is eleven at night. Yeah. He's an idiot. Why the hell did he think she'd be awake? She's usually out by ten.

 _"Ha, I get it. I've had those days,"_ says Claude. He can just see that innocent smile of his. _"By the way, Ingrid was wondering if you know whether if you're free next week. Have any updates?"_

Right. Cause he's drunk.

Sylvain grits his teeth. "Nope. I'm afraid I don't."

_"No problem."_

"Right. Well," says Sylvain. Time to end this lovely talk. "See you on Saturday, then."

 _"Sure, see you then. Good talk,"_ says Claude and Sylvain's thumb moves to hang up, but is interrupted as Claude continues, _"Oh, but before you hang up—”_

Damn it. "Yeah?"

_“You should just tell Ingrid about how you feel."_

Sylvain freezes.

_"I've been in a similar situation, and it's definitely not fun."_

Is this really happening right now?

“ _Trust me, it’ll_ _make you feel a whole lot better.”_

Yeah. This is actually happening.

_"Sorry to spring this onto you. Sure you're not in the mood."_

Wow. _Wow._

"If you have enough tact to realise that, then why'd you say anything at all?"

Sylvain hears him smile.

_"I wanted to."_

"Wow," says Sylvain. He laughs, and feels a delirious kind of numbness wash over his body. "Can I tell you something before we cut this lovely phone call short, then?"

He hears the sound of a tap running from the other end.

_"Sure."_

He snarls, lip curling. "I fucking _hate_ you."

_"Fair enough—"_

Sylvain hangs up.

He throws his phone on the balcony concrete, and it shatters, glass splintering, with his case splitting in half.

Yeah.

The Goddess must really fucking hate him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can- can you believe that i had to cut a scene with felix. i still had shit to write. wtf. Dw, we'll see him next chapter!
> 
> COMMENTS GIVE ME STRENGTH. I WILL REMINISCE ON THEM DURING FUTURE CHILDBIRTH AND IT WILL GIVE ME STRENGTH TO PUSH A 5KG FETUS OUT. 
> 
> FOR PEOPLE WHO WANT TO COMMENT DON'T KNOW WHAT TO COMMENT OR FEEL TOO SHY: i get it i am you too most of the time LOL. Legit, feel free to drop me just an eggplant emoji AND I WILL CACKLE. Or a dad joke. Both would destroy me and my crops, but in a good way (can you tell that i'm a slut for comments). 
> 
> PEACE YA'LL SEE YA ON (planned) July 15th.  
>    
> UPDATE: Planned 11th because of a reader with a beautiful name. You know who you are!
> 
> Also: Ingrid’s one night stand. The timing of the Sylvgrid discord server. I kept quiet when y’all were discussing it. BTW I wonder who her one night stand was? HMMM???
> 
> Next chapter: Ingrid notices that a few things are...odd.
> 
> UPDATE:  
> I found the perfect song for this chapter. 'Best Friend' by Rex Orange County. Look it up, ya'll. Listen to the lyrics, ya'll. 'Tis perfecto. 
> 
> MORE IMPORTANTLY...
> 
> I got fan art.......am crying....it's the valentine bag scene.....UwU
> 
> CHECK IT OUT FOLKS
> 
> [HERE'S THE LINK AHHHH](https://twitter.com/petorahs/status/1279434698901643266?s=20)


	4. Maybe I Just Eat Too Much, but I Swear that Everyone is Acting Weird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the span of three days, Ingrid realises that things are very, very odd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ON THE LAST EPISODE OF CHAMPAGNE, WINE AND VODKA...
> 
> SO
> 
> THE COMMENTS FROM THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER HAVE GIVEN ME INFINITE POWER. POWER TO PUSH OUT ANY NUMBER OF BABIES, OF ANY WEIGHT. INFINIIIITE POWEEEEEEEEEEEEER!!
> 
> FCK
> 
> ENJOY THIS ONE FOLKS
> 
> IT'S A CHONKY CHONK CHAPTER
> 
> BUT FIRST. 
> 
> Trigger Warning: Mentions of Alcoholism.

**Continental Year 3027, Blue Sea Moon**

Derdriu is the city of innovation and capitalism, where ideas are actualised and money is made. Its culture of patronage and consumerism is evidenced by its numerous startups and businesses, whether they be quirky fusion-style restaurants, savvy tech companies or avant-garde fashion brands. Her citizens are blatant in their consumption of material goods.

Derdriu. The so-called ‘City of Dreams’.

It is also a city that Ingrid _should_ feel comfortable in.

It is, after all, the origin of where her blood flows and where her ancestral flesh was formed, with both her paternal and maternal lines established there. Her family's Faerghus identity is therefore relatively new, with her great-grandfather moving to Galatea as a young man to try his hand at the region’s untapped business potential in the agricultural sector. To endear himself to the locals who were suspicious of those of Leicester due to post-war tensions, her great-grandfather had taken ‘Galatea’ as a last name.

According to Granny, however, it just weirded them out.

So, Ingrid _should_ like Derdriu, but other than her high salary and the mouth-wateringly good food (how does literally everything taste so good?), she can’t find much else to like about it.

Especially not when her peers are spoiled trust-fund babies. 

Now, Ingrid grew up around money, but Leicester high society is an entirely different sort of egocentric behemoth. She thought her childhood friends could be so ignorant in the ways of the world, but compared to Derdriu’s young elite, the boys are such well-adjusted and well-informed adults.

But if the only issue Ingrid had with Derdriu was its high society, then it would have been fine. Food would have conquered _that_ grievance. 

But it wasn't. For you see, Derdriu is much more than just that.

Oh, where to begin? The apathy towards systematic poverty? The issue of never-ending traffic which the city council wilfully ignores? The obsession with social media, which seems to dictate the lives of everyone around her? Goddess save them all. 

And all of Derdriu’s flaws and eccentricities are encapsulated and exacerbated in a party setting. Which she is at, because the only boss who never asked for her social media details at the interview stage, who volunteers at homeless shelters and donates to charities, and is fighting the council to get off their asses and sort out the traffic — invited her.

Ingrid didn’t want to come, but she just can’t say no to Judith, for fear of disappointing her. 

But that was then. Now? Disappointment is nothing when faced with the company she has to keep here. Politicians, entrepreneurs, actors, businessmen and — she shivers — ‘socialites’. As if that was a career. As if they weren't backed up by ‘daddy’s money’.

Ingrid looks down to her champagne glass.

There’s gold leaf in it.

_Ugh._

Yet, she still chugs her (fifth? Sixth? Eighth?) glass down, despite the voice in her head warning her of the inevitable hangover and regret that she'll feel, come tomorrow morning. 

But the headache she has to endure _now_ when talking to these people is worse than anything a hangover could throw at her. One man —the Gloucester heir— expressed concern about the aged look of her stilettos, noting that it would be 'dangerous to walk in such old heels', and that he'd purchase her new pairs, as an act of 'charity'. 

Snide ass, insulting her grandmother's hand-me-downs. It’s only seventy years old. 

Hearing a vibration, Ingrid then looks down to her phone to find a text from Sylvain.

Sylvain  
  
**Today** 8:15 PM  
How many lawyers does it take to change a💡 ?

She rolls her eyes. This again?

Sylvain  
  
Oldest joke in the book, you disappoint me  
HAHA! I knew it’d catch your attention!!   
  


Ingrid scoffs. How ridiculous. 

As she considers her reply, Ingrid shuffles closer to the wall. Her thumb hovers over her phone’s keyboard, but she can’t quite come up with a quip. Instead, she comes to a somewhat sombre realisation.

She misses Faerghus.

Even the objectively worse food. Even the very much objectively worse pay.

Even Sylvain.

Maybe especially because it’s Sylvain.

But that's only because it’s been so long since she’s seen him — after all, it’s only been a few months since he’s returned from his two year appointment in Sreng. And she wasn’t even able to go to his homecoming. Instead, she watched in from her laptop, sipping her lone glass of wine as the boys downed vodka shots as if they were still students. 

She’ll admit it. She was jealous. But this is what it meant to be an adult: to balance friendship with responsibilities.

Ingrid sighs. She knows it’s only the alcohol talking but she really does miss him. 

Thumbs typing a response, Ingrid smiles softly as she presses the ‘send’ button. No doubt he’ll be insufferable, but he deserves to hear something nice once in a while.

Sylvain  
  
You know what Sylvain  
I miss Faerghus  
And you  
  


Ingrid covers her mouth with a hand, hiding her grin.

Oh, he’ll be _so_ insufferable.

“Not enjoying the party?”

Her grin drops. 

Ugh. Is she being hit on? _Again?_

Ingrid resists the urge to glare as she raises her eyes. The urge then dissipates, however, as she instead blinks in surprise, finding a man — a very, very handsome man — returning her confused stare with a charming smile and a friendly gaze.

Huh. Okay.

“Claude,” says the man, as he offers her his hand. His charming smile widens. “And you are?”

Ingrid narrows her eyes on the hand. She thinks of all the men who've approached her this evening, all who seemed decent enough, only to then turn out to be egoists drunk on power, ignorant man-children or playboy casanovas acting tough with daddy’s credit card.

So, she gives this ‘Claude’ a scan. Custom tailored clothing, a diamond studded watch and _very_ nice hair. Simply put, his fashion is similar to that of Sylvain’s. Maybe even better. Oh, how he’d mope if he ever heard that.

Scan complete. Assessment: a casanova type. Probably daddy’s money, maybe not, though most likely considering his youth. There is one thing she is sure of, however. He is influential, and like any other person at this party, he could destroy her reputation.

So, she has to be polite.

But she’s also chugged countless champagne flutes in the span of three hours.

“Not interested.”

At her blasé response, Claude arches a brow, before then muffling a snigger into his hand. Noticing Ingrid's suspicious glare, his hand retreats to his pinstripe suit pocket, tongue flickering over his bottom lip as he tries to settle down his grin.

“Ha, sorry. I didn’t mean it in that way, but I don’t blame you for thinking so,” he says, maintaining his easy-going smile and unflinching eye-contact. “You’re Judith’s protege, aren’t you?”

Ingrid's glare falls. 

Hold on.

She sorts through her memory folders, landing on the file so-aptly named: _‘the reason why she came to this goddess forsaken party in the goddess be damned first place’._

Right. Because Judith wanted to introduce her to someone.

A man called ‘Claude von Riegan’.

Oh goddess.

“I’m–I’m so sorry, I hadn’t—” Ingrid stammers, before then giving up with the pinch of her brow. She closes her eyes with a sigh. Damn it. The regret is coming on early. Fluttering her eyes open, she is greeted by Claude’s stalwart friendly smile. Somehow, she finds it both intimidating and comforting. “I’ve clearly had too much to drink.”

“I don’t blame you. Look at the company." Claude smirks as he looks to the foyer with a pointed finger. He lowers his voice to a whisper. “That man with the purple hair? Oh, he is just the worst.”

Ingrid looks to the man in question — the Gloucester heir, she realises — who returns Claude’s pointed finger with a pointed glare. Swirling her flute, she says, “He seems to reciprocate the sentiment.”

“Eh, we’re what you call ‘frenemies’. More importantly,” Claude's gaze travels over her, in a manner that Ingrid would call ‘assessing’. His voice is low as he continues, “Say, you went to Garreg Mach, didn’t you?”

Ingrid pauses, before then giving a nod. Now. Where will this line of inquiry lead? Will it be an innocent one?

Maybe. Maybe not.

His grin widens. “Dimitri’s friend?”

Ingrid's grip around her champagne flute tightens.

Now. His inquiry _could_ still be innocent, but it also _could_ be an inquiry made out of unwarranted curiosity about Dimitri. Too many times has she let her guard down, only to then be barraged by questions. So, Ingrid looks away, opting to sip at her near-empty champagne glass.

“I’m not sure if that’s any of your business."

Hearing Claude suck in a breath, she glances over to his side.

“Ah, right. Apologies, I didn’t mean anything by it. Dimitri and I actually know each other,” says Claude, offering a smile, clearly meant to appease. “You see, back when he was dating Marianne, I was with her best friend at the time, so we hung out. I thought that I might have seen you around him, that’s all.”

Ingrid blinks. Then, sighs. “Goddess, I am so sorry. I keep jumping to conclusions.”

“Again, I don’t blame you. It’s a topic that warrants some guard, after all.”

Ingrid looks down with a sigh. She can continue blaming her behaviour on the alcohol, but the fact of the matter is that it was her decision to drink so much.

“But anyway, as for the reason I asked,” Claude's apologetic smile twists into something else. “I’ve always thought you were cute.”

Ingrid pauses. She then raises a brow as she brings her lips to the rim of the champagne flute. Huh. “I thought your intention was _not_ to flirt?”

He leans in closer. “I’ve changed my mind.”

Smooth, but she’s developed an immunity from her years of exposure. 

Ingrid takes another sip from her near-empty glass. “Well, I haven’t.”

Bringing his own glass to his lips, Claude leans back, shrugging his shoulders with a small smile. “Shame. I hoped you might have.”

His style of flirting is different from Sylvain. If it were him, no doubt his response would have been something like _‘Oh, you will have by tonight’_ or _‘Ouch. But hot’_.

Goddess be damned, why does she know this? Just, why?

Though, she’s never been on the receiving end, so who knows. Maybe he acts more like Claude in private. She sighs. This is a ridiculous train of thought.

Why is she even thinking of Sylvain so much in the first place? The alcohol?

“What are you thinking about?”

Ingrid sips her glass. “Another man.”

“Oof. You know how to wound,” says Claude, pressing a hand against his chest. He leans back against the wall, curtain swaying. “I happen to find that rather attractive, however.”

Okay. Maybe he’s more similar than she thought. “Look, I know your type.”

“My...” Claude looks up, then back at her as he says,“‘type’?”

“Yes. Your...” Ingrid starts, mimicking his tone as she ends with, “‘type’.”

Claude clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “People are complex, multi-faceted creatures, you know,” he says, “I’m sure you’d find that I’m a bit more than this ‘type’ of yours.”

“A bit more?” Ingrid hums, tilting her head to the side, finger pressed to her chin. “I wonder what you mean.”

“Care to find out?”

Smooth. He really is smooth. Smoother than Sylvain, even.

How rare.

The alcohol in her system emboldening her, Ingrid's lashes flutter as she looks over him. “I’ll admit,” she whispers, “I’m intrigued.”

“Good to hear. So,” Claude pauses as he leans closer to her ear. “What do you think about ditching this rather drab occasion and go have a nice night out on the town?”

A shiver runs down Ingrid’s spine and she feels a hot flush of something —not the alcohol, but certainly something enhanced by it— accompanying the cool, refreshing chill.

He is very good at this. It is honestly very impressive.

Still, she glares, swatting him away from her ear. Ingrid straightens her back, in an attempt to will away her lingering shivers. “Wow. You’re suddenly very cocky.”

“Can you blame me? You’re teasing. It’s making me say and do rather daring things. Such as—”

He moves closer to her ears yet again and she feels his lips touch the edge of her ear, but before he can do any more, Ingrid catches his wrist, pulling it away.

She glares. In turn, he plasters on an innocent smile, and begins to pull away. As he does so, however, he lets his lips brush over the top of her hand.

Ingrid watches in silence as he retreats, the hand slinking back into his pocket.

“...Well,” Ingrid brings her hand back to herself. She tries to ignore the tingling she feels atop her hand, where his lips met. His very soft lips. Goddess, her immunity is being tested. “I can’t. Judith—”

“—would understand. I’m her favourite person, after all."

Favourite person? Ingrid’s eyes go to his, matching amusement with amusement.

“That’s a claim. I thought I was,” Ingrid huffs, bringing one crossed arm closer to her chest. “Being her lovely niece and all.”

Niece, she says, but not really. Ingrid is actually her ‘first cousin once removed’, but ‘niece’ is more accurate to their personal relationship. Plus, it’s a mouthful.

Back to this Claude character, however.

He replies, “Then, imagine how glad she would be to see her two favourite people, rank unspecified, for your sake rather than mine—”

She laughs, despite herself. He grins.

“—having a really good time together?” Claude takes a few steps into her space. “I think she’d just be so delighted.”

When their eyes meet, Ingrid feels a sort of thrill rush through her. A tempting thrill, one that feels very good, and one that very well could turn into something _very_ addicting.

Claude offers his hand, abandoning his now empty champagne flute on a nearby end table. “So? What do you say?”

Ingrid considers his proposition. 

She’s drunk, he’s handsome, and she hasn’t had a good fuck in a long time.

But she’s drunk, he’s a stranger and she is thinking with her lower half and not her mind.

As her father would say, _‘it’s not the most sensible idea’._

Oh, fuck it.

Or rather, him.

Wow. She really _is_ drunk — and oh goddess, the _hangover_ that she’ll have. It’ll be a killer.

Whatever. Time to make something good come out of this party.

Ignoring the buzz of her phone, she takes his hand.

* * *

_“...with...anniversary of the Blai....v. Faerghus case approachi…”_

Ingrid doesn’t open her eyes.

Instead, she focuses on the haziness of her dream-like state, the feel of the crumpled sheets on her bare skin, and the slight shimmer of sunlight, crossing from the hotel balcony to her own closed eyes.

Giving a quiet groan, she wiggles her body, not ready enough for an actual stretch. She then moves to stretch her leg across the crumpled sheets, before yelping, feeling a sharp sting of pain.

Ow. Ow, ow, ow, ow, her calf is _cramping._ Ow!

“Fuck,” whispers Ingrid, opening her bleary eyes to reach for her foot, then grabbing the toe to stretch it. She holds in a whimper, and as the pain gradually eases, she lets out a sigh, bouncing back into the bed.

That’s one way to wake up. Note to self: be sure to stretch before, well, ‘strenuous activities’.

Looking up to the ceiling, Ingrid then hears the grumble of her stomach.

She needs to eat.

Yawning and stretching her arms, Ingrid winces as she hops off the queen-sized bed, her calf protesting with a tight sting. Additional note to self: don’t do that. She sits down on the edge of the bed, massaging her sore calf, then finding her dress at her feet. She sighs. It's wrinkled, with a button popped off. She’ll need to sew that back on. Iron it, too.

Spacing out, Ingrid continues to soothe her sore calf—

_“...the recent relocation of former President Kleiman to the Waterhouse Prison in the state capital of Duscur, Ulorhba, has led to...”_

—but she then freezes. Her facial muscles tensing, Ingrid looks up to the door leading to the living room section of their hotel room.

What?

_“...as well as cult advisor Cornelia Arnim’s appeal against execution being rejected…”_

Ingrid then hears the _ping_ of the coffee machine. She scoffs.

Wow. He is actually listening to this.

Unbelievable.

Feeling a flash of hot red anger overcoming her, Ingrid rushes to the door — before then remembering the fact that she is quite literally nude. Muttering a curse, she rushes over to the closet, yanking a gown and pulling it over herself. As she ties the robe together, she releases another profanity as she sees the reflection of her skin in the mirror, littered with red marks. She groans.

Again. Unbelievable.

Now semi-decent, Ingrid bangs open the door, rushing over to the large plasma T.V, and snatching the remote next to a steaming coffee mug.

_“...interest regarding the Duscur embassy hostage crisis in 3015, which resulted in the death of countless government officials and President Blai—”_

_Zip._

Ingrid looks at the man by her side, who offers her a smile from the leather sofa.

“Good morning,” says Claude, twisting his body to face her. He takes a quick glance to the remote in Ingrid’s hand, before looking back to her face, an innocent smile on his lips. “Had a good sleep?”

“What the hell were you watching?”

“The morning news." Claude reaches out for his mug. He takes a sip. “What else?”

“About people we know,” she says. “About the people _I_ love.”

“And I love _you_ , Ingrid.”

She snarls. “Shut up.”

“Hey. In my defence, I didn’t know that the news would cover them." Claude abandons his mug, opting to raise his open palms. “It’s my routine to watch the morning news, you know that.”

“Then you could have had the courtesy to turn the T.V off when you heard what was being discussed.” Ingrid glares as she crosses her arms. “It’s disrespectful.”

In response, Claude gets up from the sofa. He whirls around to stand in front of her, hand reaching for hers. She smacks it away. Claude accepts the rejection with the slow slink of his hands into his pyjama pant pockets.

“You’re right. I’m sorry." Claude looks down to his hotel slippers, before then seeking Ingrid's eyes with his own sincere gaze. “I disrespected their privacy. That was my bad.”

If there is one weakness she has, it is Claude's sincerity. She can't help but forgive him, every time. Perhaps it is a bad habit formed out of her association with her trouble-making childhood friends. One in particular is especially guilty of this — but she forgives _him_ every time, doesn't she?

“...It’s fine,” Ingrid mumbles, fiddling with the end of the robe’s tie. “I know you didn’t mean it. You can’t avoid the news.”

“Thank you." Claude reaches out, hand caressing hers away from the robe. She looks up, watching as his eyes travel over her figure, an innocent smile turning decidedly _not_ innocent _._ “Nice marks, by the way.”

“Oh my goddess." Ingrid groans, one hand rushing to cover her nape and the other, her collarbone. Her skin feeling hot, she yells, “I told you not to do that, _you—!”_

Claude laughs as Ingrid reaches out to lightly smack at his chest. Taking a few steps back, he pushes her off with a grin. “Come on, it’s winter! You’ll be all covered up.”

Huffing, Ingrid grabs a magazine from a rack, rolling it up. Claude shakes his head with a shaky laugh, and she tries to will away her own smile, as she rushes at him with the rolled up paper weapon. Contrary to the scenario that played out in her mind's eyes, Ingrid winces as a sharp sting of pain rushes through her calf muscle yet again. Instead, she falls into his chest, his arms nestling around her waist.

"You good there?" he asks.

She looks up, glaring. "It better be gone by the party, you ass.”

“Come on, that’s on Saturday. Your skin will have four days of rest by then." Claude's finger curls to brush away a loose lock of hair away from her face. Ingrid's glare then dissolves, as his eyes leer over her body again. “Though, who knows, new marks may—”

Snarling, Ingrid shoves her palms against his chest, but his grip only tightens. “Don’t you dare.”

Bringing her closer against his chest, he whispers, “But what if I do?”

“I would throw you out on the streets." Ingrid huffs, giving another push. “End of discussion.”

Claude laughs, his arms around her loosening enough for Ingrid to pry herself away from him. 

Then her stomach grumbles. He laughs even harder. She rolls her eyes.

“After all that food last night,” Claude bounces back onto the sofa with a grin, “you’re still hungry?”

Ingrid pats her stomach, sauntering over to the kitchen. “My stomach is a vacuum. What can I say?”

Ingrid opens the hotel refrigerator. She grabs yoghurt and an assortment of berries they bought at the local supermarket — strawberries, blackberries, blueberries — then topping it with the hotel’s complimentary deluxe honey.

How decadent. 

Having her first bite with a hum (mm, yum), Ingrid then notices a phone charger connected to her own phone, in a socket below the cupboards.

Huh. Guess she left it there.

Spoon in mouth, Ingrid swipes open her phone.

“Oh, by the way,” says Claude, looking over his shoulder from the sofa, mug in one hand and a magazine in the other. “Sylvain called last night.”

“He did?” Ingrid looks at her history, finding a three minute conversation. She looks back up, finding Claude immersed in his magazine. An economics one, she notes. “Did you take the call?”

“I did indeed.” Claude licks his thumb as he turns the page. “It was a drunk call.”

Ingrid closes her eyes and sighs. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Well, I say drunk call, but he wasn’t uninhibited. Rather,” Claude looks up, sucking in one side of his cheek as he considers his next choice of words. “More blunt, let’s say.”

“Rude, then?”

“No, no. Just blunt.” Claude re-adjusts his position, crossing his legs. His feet dangle over the end of the sofa. “He said he still doesn’t know about next week, by the way. Hopefully he’ll have an update by the party.”

Ingrid frowns. He’s still busy? She sighs around her spoon. After all that business in Sreng, she had hoped he would have more free time, but life is life.

“But you know,” says Claude. “He seems like a nice guy. I think him and I will get along well.”

Ingrid smiles. “I’m glad, then.”

As Ingrid reaches for another spoonful of yoghurt, she hears another _ping_ from her phone. Who could it be? She gives a small smile. Maybe Sylvain? 

She opens her phone.

“Oh.” Ingrid blinks. “Byleth said that she’d like to join us at the museum today.”

Claude pauses. “Oh?”

Ingrid’s fingers stop mid-response. “Is it okay?” 

“Of course it is.” Claude smiles, shuffling deeper into the sofa, magazine in hand. “The more the merrier, as they say.”

“Alright,” says Ingrid. “I’ll let her know then.”

Leaning against the counter, Ingrid sends her reply. 

* * *

Byleth  
  
**Today** 7:45 AM  
I am interested in the Sreng exhibit. May I come?  
  
Sure, no problem  
  
Thank you. I will pick you up.  
  
No, it's okay. Let's just meet up at Liberation Square😊  
  
Ok.  
  
I saw the news  
  
Is Dimitri okay?  
  
Yes. We discussed it.  
  
Thank you so much  
  
See you at 10, Byleth  
  
See you at 10 a.m.

* * *

“You know," Byleth starts, "I’ve been to many countries, but never Sreng.”

Ingrid smiles as she directs her gaze away from the red-clay statue to Byleth, whose own eyes are still fixed on the piece. “Oh, really? Which ones?”

Byleth looks down, before beginning a count of her fingers. “Adrestia, Leicester, Morfis, Dagda, Brigid…”

“Goddess, you _are_ well-traveled." Ingrid pairs her amused smile with crossed arms. She looks down, her foot kicking at nothing in particular, as she says, “To be honest, I’m a little jealous.”

After the words leave her, the upward tilt of Ingrid’s lips falters downwards. 

The thought lingers.

To be _completely_ honest, she was more than just 'a little jealous'. After all, Ingrid's opportunity for travel in her life has been limited. In her twenty-eight years of existence, she had only been to two foreign countries, both of which did not feel foreign at all.

Leicester, being her heritage and a car ride away from Galatea, never felt exotic or exciting, being more of a second home. Still, she remembers the joy she felt as a child, when she saw her relatives greet them by the border, then hosting them at their home for weeks on end. She remembers playing with children who felt like her own cousins (and not her cousin's cousin's cousin) and feasting on delectable Derdriu-style fried pheasant. Mm.

The other was Garreg Mach. Being an independent city-state, it technically counted, but its minuscule size and scale didn't do much for her wanderlust. What she'll always appreciate, however, was the diversity of its student population. It was at Garreg Mach, after all, where she had her first encounter with authentic Brigid cuisine, when Dorothea invited her to try Petra's cooking (Continental Year 3020. Place of Consumption: the Black Eagles dorm kitchen). Mm.

Even her experiences of domestic travel was relatively limited. Her family's policy was as thus: no planes, no cruises, no bullet trains. Whether it was Fhirdiad, Gautier or Fraldarius, it was their battered twenty-year old family van, with its dysfunctional heater and scratchy radio, that would deliver them to their destination. Which is why Ingrid was so ecstatic during her trip to the Rhodos Coast, in _Western_ Faerghus, in that summer of 3019, where she travelled via _bullet train._ Oh, how she felt like such an adult, and how she daydreamed of travelling wherever, whenever.

Ingrid's nostalgia-driven smile then drops with her shoulders. But here she is, nine years later, with the only glimpses of foreign culture she’s had in exhibits such as these — because while she can afford a museum ticket, a plane ticket is a once in a year affair, reserved for her friends and family in Faerghus.

Money complicates everything.

“My father often took me on his travels. Also,” says Byleth, closing one more finger before then returning a closed fist to her side. “Almyra.”

Ingrid’s smile returns as she looks over to Byleth. Now, Almyra? That could be her exception to her once-in-a-year ticket. If only the border tensions would settle down. 

“You know, Claude’s actually from Almyra,” says Ingrid.

“I know," replies Byleth, with no beat of hesitation or suggestion of processing. Which is strange, because most people _do_ have a reaction — and most people don’t just ‘know’. 

Ingrid's eyes narrow. She glances upwards, sorting through her memory: _conversations with Byleth._ Strange. She’s never mentioned it to her. “You do?”

Byleth's lips separate as she opens her mouth to reply. “Yes, because—”

“—It’s because I'm tall, dark and handsome, isn't it?”

Ingrid feels a breath of air near her ear. She looks up to find Claude behind her. He looks down, lips quirked, before then settling his arm around her waist. 

“Fódlan men can’t compete,” he says. 

Ingrid leans back into him and the fur collar of his coat tickles her ears. “Found the restroom?”

“Just in time. Though I must say,” says Claude, before then giving a quick survey of the exhibit with his eyes. “This museum is a damn maze.”

Ingrid's hand reaches to pat his cheek—

“Fódlan men can compete,” says Byleth, as she turns to face Claude. “Dimitri, for example. He is extremely attractive.”

—but she then rushes to smother her mouth instead, a snort accompanying her repressed chuckles. Byleth's questioning stare locks onto her, but Ingrid can't stop. After all, she can feel a love-sick rant incoming from her, with praise that will rival medieval Adrestian poetry. That, combined with her deadpan delivery and stoic expression, is going to be deadly.

“I’ll admit, he’s a good-looking guy." Claude lets go of Ingrid’s waist. He helps himself to the gap made by Ingrid's laughing episode, looking down at Byleth with a glint to his eyes. “But aren’t you being a little biased here?”

“Bias is inevitable." Byleth returns his curious gaze with a trademark stare. Her tone remains deadpan as she continues, “I love him more than anything, after all."

Looking away to the side, Ingrid bites back a smile, pressing the back of her hand against her bitten lips. Adorable.

“Fair enough,” says Claude. He then looks over to Ingrid. “What about you, then? Would _you_ happen to have a bias?”

Ingrid’s hand drops from her mouth, as she gathers her arms to cross against her chest. “No.”

“Ouch,” Claude hisses, backing away from her with a hand to his heart. “No support?”

Ingrid scoffs, before then stepping closer into his space. Reaching out, she feels as his cheeks raise with his smile. She then squeezes his cheeks, before then releasing it with a light smack. She whispers, “No.”

Turning on her heels, Ingrid ignores Claude’s call after her, smirk on her face. Instead, she walks around the exhibit alone, taking in the pieces of Srengese art, furniture and tools. 

She skims through the descriptions of every item, coming away with a small piece of new knowledge each time. Ingrid shelves the information in a memory folder: Srengese culture, the creation of which being Sylvain’s influence. It was the rare topic which managed to dominate his talk of girls as a student, after all. She had to respect that with her memory.

As Ingrid passes through the exhibit, she begins to notice a recurring motif. Whether it be an inscription, carving or painting, a serpentine figure is ever-present. She crosses her arms as she passes by a large, red-clay vase, finding a battle depicted with the aforementioned flying serpent. Her brows narrow as she consults her memory — and a- _ha._

Right. Sylvain had once mentioned a Srengese god which took on the form of a serpent. Leaning down with crossed arms, she looks closer to read the description card.

_This vase (est: Imperial Year 102-25) depicts the Srengese god of chaos, the Mah Acui (trans: ‘The Lord of the Desert’) battling the legendary hero, Hridya. It ends with the proud Hridya’s loss, with the Mah Acui claiming the palace as his own. According to folklore, it was never reclaimed._

Ingrid hums as she takes a step back. Interesting. She could see how Sylvain could become so obsessed.

“Sorry to bother you, miss,” calls a familiar voice from behind her. Ingrid smiles as she falls back against Claude. She looks to see him return the smile. “Are you ready to move on to the next room yet?”

Ingrid then bounces off his chest, turning to face him as she reaches for his hand. “Sure, let’s move on.”

Walking hand-in-hand, the two find Byleth waiting by the seating area. She looks up, and noting their presence, joins them as they enter the hallway leading to the main room.

As they amble through the hall, Ingrid notices how it gradually both quietens and darkens. The bright light of the previous section shines from behind them. Only dim floor lights highlight their way, reminiscent of an airplane overnight flight. 

The room is crowded as they arrive, with a couple dozen or so people squished into one small room. Still, with a slight tippy-toe, Ingrid manages to see the centrepiece. 

The Sword of Begalta.

An ancient relic revered by the people of Sreng and held sacred by the faithful of Fódlan, although for different reasons. Ingrid knows the reason for the Fódlan faithful — something to do with Saint Macuil — but with the description so far, she can’t quite recall what the reason of sanctity was for the Srengese.

Oh well. She knows who to ask.

What she can say with confidence, however, is that the sword represents the culmination of Faerghus’ diplomatic efforts with Sreng — which Sylvain was a part of. 

To think that Sylvain — who as a young teen was determined to squander his potential — would go on a diplomatic mission that would result in two enemy nations exchanging priceless artifacts to their respective national museums, as an act of tentative trust and hopeful reconciliation. 

Ingrid smiles and feels warmth spread through her body.

He’s amazing.

“Is it just me,” Claude whispers, and Ingrid looks over to him. His palm is sweaty in her hand, and Ingrid watches as his eyes hone in on the sword, seemingly bewitched. “Or do you feel something…” he gulps, “emanating from this sword?”

Ingrid knocks her head to one side, staring at the sword. “Uh,” she mutters, “Not particularly?”

“I do,” says Byleth, her own eyes honed in on the sword, like a cat hunting prey. A hand travels north to cusp her ear, eyes fluttering closed. “It feels like it’s singing.”

Ingrid blinks. “Singing?”

“Yes. Not a choir, but neither is it a solo.” Byleth’s eyes flutter open and her eyes remain steady as she continues to stare at the sword. She then moves the hand to her heart. “A duet. Howling in the desert, wind whipping up the sands, sun burning the scorched earth—”

Ingrid has always known Byleth to be peculiar. Her oddities were obvious from the moment they met at Garreg Mach.

“—two voices, singing in unison, and yet conflicting in both tone and cadence,” Byleth continues, unperturbed by Ingrid’s blank stare. She then drops her hand to her side, whispering in a hush tone, “That...is what it feels like.”

Even so, what in the world is she going on about?

Hoping to find camaraderie in her bemusement, Ingrid grabs at Claude’s hand, glimpsing at his face. She blinks, however, as she finds his eyes shining with vibrant curiosity, locked onto Byleth — as if _she_ were the sword.

She tugs his hand harder. He still doesn't look her way.

Ingrid feels goosebumps crawl across her skin. This reminds her of something. Something she had never wished to relive.

_“Ingrid,” he says, and he looks so joyful, so giddy in a way she’s never seen in their long years of friendship. “Mercedes and I are—”_

“If crests still existed,” says Byleth, and Ingrid snaps out of her reverie. “I’d wager it would be similar to this feeling.”

“...If,” says Claude, as he looks down. “If it still existed, you say?”

Byleth’s eyes remain focused on the sword. “Yes.”

The three fall into a silence. While the two continue to look upon the piece, Ingrid looks down to her feet, no longer tippy-toed. 

Ingrid is out of place and she doesn’t know why. She’s supposed to be the connecting link between the three of them, and yet here she is, out of place. 

The reason is a question to her. But _does_ she want to know?

Ingrid flinches out of her reverie, however, as her ringtone blares through the small space. Her face feels hot as she feels the stares of the other guests, some curious, some obviously offended. Yanking her hand out of Claude’s — it was a loose grip, anyway — she swears under her breath as she rustles through her purse. Damn it, she thought it was in silent mode!

As her thumb swipes to decline to call, her eyes take in the caller I.D.

Oh. Judith.

Damn it.

“Goddess, I’m so sorry. I have to take this call, it’s from my boss,” says Ingrid, sighing as she shoves the phone back into her purse. Adjusting the flimsy strap, she looks over her shoulder. “I’ll be back soon, okay? Meet you back here.”

Claude offers a casual wave of his hand while Byleth gives a short nod.

Turning on her heel, Ingrid struts through the hall. It’s only the second time through it, yet the novelty of the fading lights is already gone.

Perhaps it is because of the hammering of her heart in her ears. Perhaps it is because her skin is raised in goosebumps. Perhaps it is because she is gritting her teeth too hard. 

Perhaps it is because her instinct is screaming at her, but for once, she wishes that it would just shut up.

Finding a quiet corner just outside the exhibit entrance, Ingrid pulls out her phone to redial Judith. By the third ring, she hears a familiar smooth, husky voice.

 _“Hey, Ingrid. Sorry to bother you on your vacation,”_ says Judith, the sound of a boiling kettle accompanying her voice. There is also the hushed gossiping of her co-workers, the familiar _tick-tock_ of the dusty grandfather clock, and the blare of another’s phone. She’s at the office. _“Did I interrupt anything?”_

“No, not at all,” she replies. Ingrid leans against the wall, holding her phone with both hands. “What did you need me for?”

“ _Some new details about the Albrecht case have turned up. Some things you might find very interesting, let’s just say.”_

Ingrid straightens her posture. “Of course.”

Casework. Legal jargon. Her career. This is familiar territory. One that Ingrid can deal with. What she can focus on. Nothing else needs to occupy her thoughts.

Just this. 

It is a shame, then, that the topic moves on so soon. 

_“Thanks for your time. I know it’s your holiday,”_ says Judith. _“So, how are you and the boy going?”_

Ingrid pauses. “Good.”

 _“‘Good’. I see,”_ says Judith. Ingrid knows she’s caught onto the hesitation, the implication – but the implication of what? They _are_ good _._ “ _Well, if he ever makes you cry, let me know. I’ll bust his ass back to his mother’s skirts.”_

Ingrid laughs. “He hasn’t. But if he does, I promise to tell you.”

 _“Leave it all to me,”_ says Judith, and Ingrid hears how she pours her pot of tea – likely her usual Almyran pine blend. _“Have a good holiday, dear.”_

“I will.” Ingrid smiles. “Thank you for the call, Judith. I’ll be sure to look into the details.”

And with that, the call ends. Ingrid kicks off the wall with her heel, twirling around with a stride to her step. She then turns the corner leading back into the exhibit—

"Eep!"

—but then hears a squeak and the tumbling of limbs, as she falls onto the marble floor of the museum. Groaning, Ingrid's eyes gradually clears as she opens her eyes, taking in the figure in front of her.

There is a young girl, no older than fifteen, with vibrant viridian hair rustled from the fall. Her own eyes gradually opening, she mutters to herself, “Oh goodness, oh goodness…”

When the girl’s eyes open fully, Ingrid finds herself mesmerised with the beauty of the shade. Matching the girl’s hair, it is vibrant viridian — Ingrid’s personal favourite colour.

But now is not the time to be admiring the colour of a young girl’s eyes. Instead, it is time for the adult to stand up, apologise and check for any injury. And so, Ingrid shoots back up, rushing to help the girl.

“Oh goddess, I'm so sorry, miss." Ingrid offers the girl her hand, keeping her tone soft. "Are you alright?"

The girl blinks, before then shaking her head with a small, but pretty, smile. 

"Oh goodness, you need not apologise. It was my clumsiness, after all, which led to our little incident," says the girl. She then eyes Ingrid's outstretched hand, before giggling. "Still, who am I to reject the kindness of a stranger? Hup we go!"

Ingrid steps back as she pulls the girl up, finding her to be as light as a feather. So light, in fact (and also quite short), that she bumps forward into Ingrid’s bosom, before then rebounding back with a scrunched nose.

Ingrid gives a soft groan. "Again, my apologies."

"Again, you need not apologise,” says the girl, offering Ingrid a prim and pretty smile, releasing her hands. She then huffs, pumping both of her fists into the air. "In fact, I admire your strength! Most pertinently, the effortlessness of your 'yank', if you will. I am truly envious."

Ingrid stares as the girl gives a ‘hiyah’. What a peculiar young girl. 

“Oh, I’m,” Ingrid looks up as she searches for the word, “flattered?”

The girl’s pretty smile parts as she opens her mouth to respond—

"Flayn!"

—but then gasps instead, heavy curls whipping to the direction of the call. 

“Oh dear. My father is calling for me." 'Flayn' sighs. With a sweet smile, she does a little curtsey, as if she were from the Imperial age. “I wish you a fair day, miss.”

‘Miss’? Kids still consider her a ‘Miss’? Huh. Ingrid smiles back. Well, she’ll take the compliment. After all, who knows when she’ll be considered a ‘ma’am’, with no room for argument.

And so, the strange girl she hops away to her father. The two stand out like Rhodos seaweed amidst a golden wheat field. 

Wait. A man with green hair? 

Ingrid squints, as she takes a closer look at the father. 

Isn't that the dean of Garreg Mach? Huh. So, he had a daughter. 

But more importantly, how does he still look so young? Wouldn’t he be in his mid-to-late fifties by now? Also, what was his name again? Seth? Sothe? Argh, what was it—

“So,” Ingrid jumps as she hears a voice by her ear. She looks back, finding Claude behind her, his usual smile on his face. He says, “That was a pretty long call with Judith.”

Ingrid looks at her watch. She frowns. “That was twenty minutes?”

“Indeed,” says Claude. “Did you talk about little old me?”

“Not really, no. Just work,” says Ingrid, as she readjusts her watch strap. She then throws him a glance. “Where’s Byleth?”

“Here.”

Ingrid flinches as Byleth pops in, seemingly manifesting out of thin air, before then relaxing her hold on her purse. She’ll never get used to Byleth’s ability to kill her presence. 

"Goddess, I’ll never get used to that." Ingrid notices Byleth’s questioning stare, but opts to ignore it for a simpler topic. She turns to face the two. "By the way, do you guys remember the dean of Garreg Mach?"

Byleth’s quizzical eyes widens. "Why do you ask?"

"I just bumped into his daughter. Literally. That man has not aged a day," says Ingrid. She then hums, "Also, what was his name again? It's on the tip of my tongue."

"...Seteth?" whispers Byleth, pressing a finger to her lips. 

Ingrid clicks her fingers with a wide smile. "Right! That was his name!"

For some reason, Byleth maintains her hushed tone as she continues, "I wonder why they're here."

"Well, it _is_ peak holiday season." Claude shrugs. “Plus, there’s the sword, which is a first for Fódlan. Hardly surprising the dean of Garreg Mach, of all places, would want to come see a holy relic.” 

Byleth bites her thumb, before whispering, "...The sword.”

“And the carols,” Ingrid offers. “That’s always on a tourist’s bucket list. This year especially, with Dorothea in a leading role.”

Byleth looks up, dropping her fist to her side, and Ingrid’s eyes go to her thumb — finding the nail chewed and accompanied with a small spatter of blood. She looks away with a gulp. 

With no beat of hesitation, Byleth says, "I need to leave."

Ingrid looks back — not at the nail — but back to Byleth’s tense expression. Which is a concerning sight by itself. Byleth _never_ looks stressed. "Why?"

"I can't answer, but thank you for today." Ingrid steps out of the way as Byleth marches for the exit. After making a few strides, however, Byleth’s feet freeze, as she turns around with a nod. "I'll see you Saturday."

The two stare as Byleth rushes through the crowd. She turns a left to the exit, disappearing from their sight.

Claude chuckles, finger to his lips. "What a most pleasant individual."

Ingrid freezes at his words. It’s an innocent statement. One that would not have caught her suspicion the day prior, one that would not have triggered a sense of rage at the warmth in his chuckles.

Because now she knows he’s hiding something from her.

Twirling on her heel, Ingrid faces Claude with a glare and folded arms. "You say that as if you’ve never met her before."

Claude is a master at suppressing his facial tells. She knows this. Which is why, when he fails to suppress his flinch, or how his eyes widen by just a fraction, she knows. She has caught him. On a lie that is either so grand in scale that the fear of being caught revealed him, or because he was so confident in _not_ being found out. 

Knowing him, perhaps it is both. 

"...Now that is a weird thing to say,” Claude plasters on his usual expression. A loose smile, keen eyes. Still, it is too stiff to be natural. “I have. At the party, remember?"

"Before then,” says Ingrid. She watches as his hand rustles with something in his pocket. She looks back up, fingers digging into her crossed arms. "You two know each other, don't you?"

He opens his mouth. "I—"

"She knew that you were Almyran,” Ingrid shushes him. “And no one ever, ever, can tell from your looks. You were the one to tell me that.”

Claude's eyes look over her. He is studying her. Making a decision, a bet, a gamble. Does he attempt deceit or give in to lawful honesty?

By the way his shoulders relax and how he releases a sigh, Ingrid knows he’s chosen the latter.

"Your Honour.” Claude’s hands leave his pockets as he raises his arms in surrender, before then clapping it down on his thighs. "I can never escape your keen eyes."

"So?” Ingrid shrugs her shoulders with crossed shoulders. "How exactly do you know her?"

"We were friends for a time at Garreg Mach." Claude explains. "Then, after I graduated, we didn't keep in contact. That time at the party was the first I've seen of her in years."

She narrows her eyes. "And you tried to hide this fact why, exactly?"

"Because I had feelings for her, once."

Ingrid’s nails dig in her folded arms. Her teeth, also, dig into her lips. So hard it might even draw blood. 

She knew it. Her instinct is always, always right. Always. Even when she doesn’t want it to be. 

"Unrequited and long since resolved, of course,” Claude steps closer. Looking down, Ingrid watches as the tips of his shoes touch hers. She walks back a step, but he follows. She looks up to see him offer a small smile. "Otherwise, why would I come to her engagement party? Sure, I enjoy the occasional ‘beautiful woman inflicting pain on me’, but I'm not a total masochist."

“You could’ve just told me, you know? I would’ve understood.”

“I know, but I didn’t think that at the time. Which was a couple of weeks ago. Wow, I am making a terrible case for myself. But if you’ll let me tell you my excuses—” He presses a finger against her lips. As she shuts her mouth, he pulls his hand away. “Essentially, I thought that if you knew, you wouldn’t want me coming. Understandably so. Still, I wanted to meet your friends and—”

"—My ‘connections', you mean?"

At that, Claude pauses. He then sighs.

"That's certainly an accusation,” he says, seeking her eyes, "and one that I will deny, Your Honour. I was going to follow up with ‘your family’. They seem like great people, after all.” 

Ingrid has two choices. To trust, or to distrust. Distrust is her natural state around strangers, but with loved ones, she always wants to believe. Even if a stranger never gave her cause for concern, there was always a part of her that had her guard up. And even if her loved ones disappointed, lied or hurt her, she always chose trust and forgiveness. 

It’s a contradiction of self that she has always grappled with.

This time, like every other time, she follows her predictable pattern. 

“Well, that better be true, then,” says Ingrid. “I hate liars, you know.”

“And I love _you_.” Claude smiles, sincerely, as he reaches out to grasp her hand. “And if that’s a lie, then I am a lost cause.”

Ingrid doesn’t respond. 

Sighing, Claude then goes onto his knees. He raises a hand in her direction and places the other against his heart.

“My porcelain princess, I would sweep you away to the Almyran deserts if it meant that we could be alone together for but a moment—”

Groaning, she grabs his hand and yells, “Oh, stop it!”

“You’ll have to pull me up, princess.” Sighing, Claude sits down on his behind. He shakes his head, clicking his tongue. “Otherwise, I will be stuck here for an eternity, in awe of your ethereal beauty.”

Rolling her eyes, she yanks him upwards. He hops onto his feet with a grin.

“Now, your Honour,” Claude bows, before then placing a hand on her back. “Let’s talk about this over lunch. My treat.”

Ingrid stares. She rubs at the goosebumps at her arms, before then nodding with a sigh. 

Lunch is always good.

* * *

Sylvain  
  
**Yesterday** 1:45 PM  
So we went to the Sreng exhibit today  
You know that I'm super proud of you, right?  
**Yesterday** 9:35 PM  
You good?  
**Today** 8:35 AM  
Yeah sorry  
My phone broke  
Oh goddess  
You, Claude and I are cursed

* * *

"Seventy dollars. Take it or leave it."

Ingrid's eyes narrow in on the item — an antique pocket-watch. Beautiful in make, but non-functioning and discoloured. It was once no doubt a proud amber bronze, and not its current rusty sepia. 

Fortunately, it's nothing a little DIY couldn't fix, but unfortunately, it's not seventy dollars worth. Tongue twirling around her cheek, Ingrid juts her chin upwards. "Make it thirty."

The vendor's grasp around the watch tightens. Sighing, he looks to the side, muttering a curse or something similar, before then returning with a glare. “No. Seventy dollars. You trying to starve my kids? I have a newborn, you know."

"Thirty."

Reclining in his camping chair, the vendor crosses his legs. "Sixty, then."

Ingrid steps in closer, boots clapping against the cobblestone pavement, closing the distance from a metre to a rough fifty centimetre gap. The man shuffles his legs closer to himself. She follows. Intimidation is fair game when it comes to barter. "Forty."

The vendor doesn't flinch. "No."

"You know, I think I saw something similar at a previous stall," offers Claude, braving a dainty step next to her winter boots and with his own leather wingtips. His head nods to another direction, thumb following in support. "It was a newer model, but way cheaper. Thoughts?"

Ingrid hums, as she turns on her boot to face Claude. She shrugs her shoulders, lips tugged to one side. "You know what? I think I just might."

As she turns, with Claude's hand entangled in hers, Ingrid hears a muttered curse, then a yell.

"Hold on!" The vendor stands from his checkered camping chair. "I'll take fifty."

She looks over her shoulder. "Forty."

The vendor looks to his wares. He sighs. "Fine."

Her expression stoic, Ingrid passes the man his hard-earned cash, exchanging it for the prize. Another souvenir ticked off the list. She holds in her victorious grin — no need to rub it in. Otherwise, her cheeks will have cramps just from how much she's been winning today.

As the man begins to wrap the pocket watch, he shakes his head with a weak smile. "You Leicester folk drive a hard bargain, that's for sure."

"I—" Ingrid grits her teeth. She offers the man a tight-lipped smile, as she takes the wrapped pocket watch from his calloused hands. "I will take the compliment. Although, I _am_ from Faerghus. Born and raised."

The man thuds back into his chair, mumbling as he grabs a vintage cigar from a dusty pack — ew — and a modern lighter from his pocket. "Well, you don't act like it."

She feels a great need to retort. Her mouth opens in response to that need, but then she feels a tug at her hand. She looks to her side, finding herself being watched by Claude's crinkled eyes and one-sided grin. Squeezing his hand in turn, Ingrid then places the wrapped souvenir into the one large bag she is carrying, filled with her other wins.

They walk away from the stall. After reaching some distance away, Claude chuckles, as he swings her arm up and down with his own.

He meets her eyes. "I dare say, we make a rather dashing team.”

Ingrid laughs. “I think you might be onto something there.”

"More than just 'onto something'.” Claude’s eyes glint with a shimmer of intense amusement. "My friend, we have saved over a hundred dollars with our combined wit! My charm, your callousness. It's a killer."

"Callous?" Ingrid scoffs, weakly tugging her hand away from his. "I'm not callous, am I?"

Claude offers, "Ruthless?"

She stares. "You really think that's better?"

"It was a compliment. It's that quality of yours that makes you a joy in court," says Claude. "But you know time and place. Only ruthless when need be. Very attractive, if I do say so myself."

"I'll take it then." Ingrid's large shopping bag slides down as she reaches for his hand. The weight nearly proves too much, but then Claude's joined hand swoops in, swaying their arms in an upward motion. At the climax of the action, he manages to intertwine their fingers mid-motion. Ingrid laughs. "Smooth. I find that attractive, if I do say so myself."

He leans in closer to whisper, "Oh, but I do try."

Ingrid tries to summon her courtroom stoicism in an attempt to will away the shiver his voice sends down her spine. But by the way Claude himself tries to hide his widening grin by the flicker of his tongue over his upper lip, she's utterly failed. 

Though, he's failed too. It's an equal match. 

Then, Ingrid hears the voyage of a collection of tunes, increasing in volume from a soft whisper to a loud ensemble as they arrive to the vicinity of her impeccable hearing. The tones range from whimsical, to nostalgic to sombre, but all have that common sound typical of music boxes. 

She separates from Claude's grasp as her ears guide her to the music. 

It’s a Thursday evening, so not peak traffic for the Liberation Plaza Markets, but enough for her to worry that he’d lose her. So, she looks over her shoulder, then returns back to her mission as she confirms his presence. The familiar tapping of his wingtips serve to reassure her as they trek through the crowd. 

A right at the Albinean tapestry stall, then a left by the pretzel truck (note: buy one on the way back. Those pretzels are to die and kill for — literally). Thus, it doesn’t take long to find the stall. After all, her hearing is good, not superhuman, despite what Sylvain and Felix claim. She can only hear so far. 

Ingrid’s next step hesitates — has Sylvain responded to her text yet? 

Her hand reaches for her purse. 

“So, this place is what we’ve been going on a mini adventure for?” says Claude, from behind her. He steps beside her. “I’d say, it seems like it was worth it.” 

Ingrid’s hand returns to his. She takes the next step forward. “I hope so.”

A few steps later, they reach the serenading stall, browsing through its assortment of music boxes. The variety is impressive. Porcelain, metal, timber. Old, second-hand and new. Tacky, simple, gorgeous. The melodies, too, are diverse. 

As Ingrid browses, one music box in particular catches her eye.

A porcelain music box of traditional Faerghus make, shaped more like a vase than a box. Blue, accented with gold and silver, with roses carved into its sides. It depicts a ballroom scene, with a songstress leading the dance with her voice. Ingrid reaches to spin the tune, and it plays the theme of an originally Adrestian opera. An opera she’s seen before. 

Ingrid lets her joy show with a large grin. This is perfect for Dorothea. 

Her mind already shifting into gear to think of a bartering tactic, Ingrid reaches out for the music box, but then bumps into another grubby hand, which flinches from her touch. 

Ingrid looks to the side to offer a brief, compulsory apology, but the words fall off her lips. Her face of surprise is reflected in the other’s cerulean eyes. Though, Ingrid finds that it is also mirrored in the other’s own expression.

“Annette?”

"Ingrid!" Annette gasps as she pulls back, before then greeting Ingrid with a friendly smile. “Oh my gosh, what a coincidence!” 

Claude leans in from behind her. “Annette?”

“Oh, hey, Claude,” says Annette, offering him another smile. One that is decidedly less enthusiastic, but still amiable. 

Despite herself, Ingrid’s tone grows quiet. “You two know each other?”

Annette replies, “Yep! We met at Garreg Mach.”

“Indeed. Under some,” Claude’s fingers crawl up to Ingrid’s shoulders. She thinks of shrugging his grasp off as his fingers flex and bend in, quite frankly, a creepy manner. “ _C_ _reepy_ circumstances—”

“—Shush it, Claude!” yells Annette, as she reaches out to smack his fingers off Ingrid’s shoulders. Pouting with a red face — that combined with her round face makes her look like a cute cherry tomato — Annette crosses her arms. She then looks up with a huff, trying to smile away her embarrassment with quivering lips. “So! Uh, Ingrid, what are you doing here? Well, that’s obvious, you’re shopping! Probably for St. Cichol day. Which I am too! Yay?” 

Ingrid stares. “Um. What?” 

Annette shoves her face into her palms as she whimpers, “Please don’t ask.”

Ingrid mumbles, “Okay?”

Annette places a hand on her chest as she releases a sigh. A sigh that equals Ingrid's after a long day after work. This is just making her more curious. Annette then sends Claude a glare, gesturing a zip of the mouth. She whispers, “And _you._ Don’t you dare say a word.” 

In response, Claude zips his mouth with his fingers. He then throws the ‘key’ to the side with a nod. “Mm.” 

“Well, you didn’t have to throw out the key…” mumbles Annette, as she fiddles with her fingers. “Now I feel kinda guilty.” 

Claude then goes to ‘pick up the key’, then unzipping his mouth. He lets out a long sigh of relief, shaking his head and shuffling his hair. “Oh, thank you for the generosity. If I wasn’t able to speak, things could get rather,” he pauses, as he levels to meet his eyes with Annette, _“creepy—”_

Annette re-gestures the motion with a glare. “Zip it, Claude!” 

He zips it. “Mm.” 

Ingrid muffles a laugh at the exchange. An exchange that is honestly kind of adorable. Though, she supposes that's what Annette brings to whatever situation she's in. Unbeatable cuteness. 

“Anyway. Ingrid!” Annette returns her attention to Ingrid, showing a bright, if a bit uneasy, smile. “I know I just presumed, but what brings you to the markets?” 

“You were close. Obviously, we’re here to shop, but it’s less St. Cichol day and more souvenirs for our friends back in Leicester.” 

“Like this one,” says Claude, as he pulls out a perfume vial, shaped like a ballet slipper. Ingrid watches as Claude gestures for Annette to present her wrist. She does so, wrestling her heavy cream cotton sweater up her arm. He sprays it. “For Hilda. What do you think?”

The scent of rosewater and strawberries wafts to Ingrid’s scrunched nose. A bit strong, for her tastes. 

But not so for Annette, it appears, as she brings the scent up to her nose with a hum. She then releases her wrist with a gasp. “Hilda would love this! _I_ love this! Where’d you get it?”

Claude points his thumb down the street. “Next to the pretzel truck.”

Annette licks her lips, humming as she rubs her belly. “Gosh, I need to buy some pretzels, too. I skipped lunch. I swear, there’s so much to do in just twenty-four hours! I need thirty-six, at least.”

Ingrid chuckles, then reaching out to gently pat Annette’s shoulder. “While I relate, you shouldn’t keep skipping meals, Annette.”

Claude shakes his head, fist in the air, as he jokes in a stern voice, “Don’t listen to Mother dearest. Continue to neglect your nutritional needs!”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Annette groans. “By the way, how are you guys celebrating St. Cichol day?”

Ingrid says, “We’ll just be having a dinner party at Dedue’s.”

Annette pauses. She shakes her head, expression uncharacteristically serious. “I am so jealous right now. Is he going to serve that whitefish sautée?”

Ingrid smirks. “Oh, yes he will.”

Annette pouts. “Aw! He doesn’t even offer that at the restaurant.” 

“I’m sure if you ask, he’d be glad to make some for you,” says Ingrid, as she watches Annette mumble something underneath her breath, still pouting. She laughs, and hears Claude join her.

She looks to Claude, who then asks, “Your plans?” 

“Well, the initial plan was to spend it with Mercie, but then my parents wanted to go to the carols,” says Annette, as she sways her head side to side, fingers laced together. “Then, Mercie said she was invited to a party by some high school friends, so yeah! Off to the carols I go.” 

“You seem happy about it.”

“Eh. Just a little.” Annette shrugs. She then giggles, pressing the tips of her index fingers together. “Okay, maybe _more_ than a little, but can you blame me? I haven’t been since I was fourteen! Fourteen!”

Ingrid shows a wide grin to keep Annette's shining smile company. "That's sounds wonderful."

Annette nods with a hum. Ingrid frowns, however, as her smile falls, eyes looking to the side. 

“By the way, um. Will _he_ be attending the carols?” Annette shrinks, managing to look smaller than she already is. The tips of her index fingers press togther as she mumbles, “Cause. You know.” 

It doesn’t take Ingrid long to decipher the identity of the 'him' or the ‘Cause. You know.’

She obviously means Felix and Dorothea.

Ingrid then gestures to Claude with a ‘shoo’ gesture.

Claude's brows bunch together. “Am I being shooed away?”

“Yes. Deal with it.” 

Clicking his tongue, Claude raises his hands in the air as he walks away to a few stalls down. 

“Thanks, Ingrid,” says Annette, as she sighs. “Tell Claude I’m sorry.”

“He’ll be fine. But to answer your question.” Ingrid’s eyes glance upwards in an attempt to remember. What _did_ Felix say? “I’m actually not sure, but knowing him, I really doubt he’ll be attending.” 

Annette’s eyes bore into the music boxes by her side, fingers fiddling with the pom-pom hanging from her sweater. “Cool, cool.” 

“...Don’t worry.” Ingrid reaches out to gently grasp Annette’s shoulder. “Even if he did go, I don’t think you’d run into him. Thousands are attending, after all.”

“Yeah, of course! I know that. But, um,” Annette’s fidgeting worsens, and the shimmer of anxiety in her eyes then twists into a shade of guilt, as she looks down to her faux fur boots with a gulp. “Is he...doing okay?” 

“He’s been—” Ingrid pauses. _Is_ he doing okay? “—fine. He’s been making a lot of career progress.”

Annette’s lips quirk upwards. It is clear she was aiming for a smile, but the result is lacklustre. Her voice, too, lacks its usual chipper as she replies, “Oh, cool. Nice.” 

Something about the way Annette responds tells her that wasn’t exactly what she was looking for. But as much as Ingrid would like to update Annette, just as she did back when things were all good, she can’t. It’s Felix’s privacy.

“Well, it was nice seeing you again, Ingrid,” says Annette. She gives a bright smile. One that is not lacklustre, and so very Annette. “It was actually, really, really nice. We didn’t get to talk at the party, after all.” 

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that.” Ingrid sighs. The party. She almost doesn’t want to think about it. What an exhausting night that was. “Let’s just say a lot happened, so I wasn’t really in the mood to talk.”

“Oh, I know what you mean.” Annette sighs, then blinking as her phone rings. She pulls out her phone, gasping, before then looking back up to Ingrid. “Oh, I’ve got to go now! I’ll see you around, okay?”

“Anytime, Annette.” Ingrid smiles, before then glancing over to the porcelain music box which caused their reunion in the first place. She points to it. “But weren’t you going to buy this?” 

“Nah, I’ve already bought mine, that was just a browse. Say bye to Claude for me!” Annette smiles, as she lifts up her own bag, filled with small trinkets and gifts. Annette readjusts the strap of her own purse — a pink Valentine clutch purse, Ingrid realises — before then jogging off with a wave. Two stalls down, she then yells over her shoulder, “And remind Claude to zip it!” 

Ingrid laughs as she waves back. “Alright!”

As Annette’s petite figure disappears into the crowd, Ingrid reaches for her phone to call Claude. As she does so, she continues to eye the porcelain music box, imagining how it would look in Dorothea’s apartment. Would she place it in her living room, for her guests to listen to? Or would she place it in her treasure box, hidden within the inner reaches of her wardrobe room?

She bets the latter, smile creeping on her lips. 

“So,” says a crackly, aged voice. Ingrid looks behind to find the vendor. This time, he is an old man with kind eyes. “Interested in this one, young lady?” 

Ingrid grins. 

Time to barter. 

* * *

Felix  
  
**Today** 5:45 PM  
Are you going to the carols?  
**Today** 8:28 PM  
No.  
Fine but at least show Dorothea some support  
Is that any of your damn business?  
You're impossible to talk to  
Oh and if you don't show up tomorrow I WILL drag you there  
Fine.  
Also, have you heard from Sylvain recently?  
No.  
Ok, see you

_Is it just me or is he has he been dis_

* * *

"Here it is." Rodrigue’s smile widens as he pulls an album out from a basket by the fireplace. "Your high school album."

The wine in Ingrid's glass sways as she sinks into the Chesterfield sofa with a groan. "Oh goddess, I have no idea if I want to see this or not."

"I do," replies Claude. He gets up from the sofa, waltzing around to Rodrigue's single armchair by the fireplace. Arm propped on the top of the armchair, he looks over Rodrigue's shoulder. He then snorts, sniggering into his sleeve. "So. The class of 3018's 'food-fighting champion'?"

"Oh. My. Goddess." Ingrid chortles, throwing her head back as she thrashes her feet against the Chesterfield cushion tops. With a hop, she prances over to Claude's side, resting her chin on him as she looks upon the photo. She presses her grin and snort into his shoulder, before then confessing, "You know, I look so proud here, but honestly, I was so sick. When I got home, I just vomited it all back up."

"Poor Maria." Rodrigue's thumb brushes against the photo as he chuckles. "It was the end of her shift, too."

"Goddess. Don't remind me." Ingrid groans, digging her face deeper into Claude's shoulder. She feels his shoulders rise as he laughs, squeezing her closer to him. Ingrid then raises her head, tapping Rodrigue’s arm. "Wait, so how much did you end up tipping her? You never told me."

"No amount would have been enough.” Rodrigue’s mock frown then converts to laughter as Ingrid gives him the stink-eye. He reaches out to cup her hand, settling their shared grasp on his shoulder. “Maria disagreed, however. She refused as I pulled out my third bill of fifty."

Ingrid returns the grip. She mutters, "Well, she deserved the extra fifty."

Rodrigue’s head thumps against the back of the armchair as he laughs. "And I agree, my girl."

"By the way," says Claude, "how long did you live here for? All of high school?"

"Pretty much." Ingrid nods, as she resettles her hands to grip the head of the armchair. "I went home for the holidays, though."

"But how did that come to be?" says Claude. "That's a long time away from your own family, even with holiday visits." 

Rodrigue twists his body around to face Claude. "You see, Valen wanted the best education for Ingrid. Unfortunately, the best was also the most expensive, even with her scholarship,” he looks to Ingrid with a smile. “So, I offered for her to move into our Fhirdiad estate with the boys. Of course, there was some hesitation, but we managed to work things out. Didn't we, Ingrid?"

Ingrid nods. To this day, the memory of it all is so vivid. 

The wax seal of St. Macuil College on her acceptance letter, confirming reality, validating her countless hours at the battered family stable and race track. The exclamations of pride and praise which twisted into a dreaded announcement of reality — _"We can't afford it, Ingrid" —_ which _then_ converted into a restrained glee as the Fraldarius family offered to sponsor her. The fear she felt of losing the key to this large, four-storey mansion (which wasn't even the main house), that was to be her _home,_ had always creeped at the back of her mind for her first few years living there. 

Then when both the Fraldarius boys lost their keys, and she was the only one who could gain entry, that fear dissipated instantly.

The world felt so bright, then.

Claude’s head sways to the side. “The boys?”

Ingrid's smile falls off her lips, as her lips slightly part. She then bites her cheek. 

Yes. It was so bright, then.

“Ah. Right.” Rodrigue’s lips tighten. With ease, he then flips to a page, its corners worn. His finger points to— “Glenn, my eldest son. He passed away.”

‘Glenn, his eldest son, who passed away’. As if it were just that. Something so very simple.

It's not that simple. It'll never be.

“...If I may ask,” Claude's voice is hush as he speaks, attempting to tread to the topic with delicacy. But it is a topic that he should not even be attempting to tread, and so Ingrid glares. “Is this related to the embassy incident in 3015—”

“—Don’t," whispers Ingrid harshly, as she pulls his hand away from the armchair. "Just, don't."

“It’s alright, Ingrid," says Rodrigue. His voice remains even — an unnatural evenness that Ingrid has come to know too well — as he continues, “Yes. He died during the Duscur embassy crisis, in 3015.” 

‘Yes. He died during the Duscur Embassy Crisis, in 3015.’ 

Again, as if it were all so simple. 

“...My condolences. I’ve personally never had to experience the death of a loved one, so I can only imagine," says Claude. “If I may ask another—”

“—So why the fuck is it that you think you have the right to stick your head into our private business?” 

The venom in the voice jolting her, Ingrid looks up with widened eyes.

"Felix." Ingrid walks over to the lounge with crossed arms. She glares. “You don’t even know what he was going to ask.”

Felix returns the glare, a curled palm pressed into the side of his head. "You're really that naive?"

Rodrigue stands from his armchair. He walks over to Ingrid's side. "Felix. Cease this behaviour at once."

"Sure," Felix nods. He stands, before then grabbing his leather jacket from the coat hanger. His arm slides into one sleeve. "I'll leave, then. Bye."

"No, Felix," Ingrid sighs, grabbing his sleeve. "You don't have to leave, okay? I'm sorry, I know how upsetting it can be, talking about—"

"—My absence or presence here doesn't change a damn thing."

Ingrid’s lips part as she prepares a retort — but she makes no sound. She realises, with a heavy heart, that there was some truth to Felix’s statement. They had, after all, been chatting away freely with no care or mind to his silence. 

A thorn stabs at her heart. She recognises the feeling, because it is one she feels often. 

Guilt. 

"Well," Claude calls from behind, "It would be when we start opening our gifts."

Ingrid looks over her shoulder, finding Claude still by the armchair. He points to the presents lined up on the coffee table. 

“Your unopened presents would be very, very noticeable.” 

Felix’s body remains half-twisted as he glares at Claude. “And I should care why?”

“Would the mention of alcohol change your mind?” Claude smiles as Felix’s arm freezes, halfway into the other sleeve. “Kupala whiskey, to be specific. Ever heard of it?”

Ingrid looks to Felix. His arm shoves into the sleeve, but he doesn’t make the move to grab his motorcycle keys or wallet. Instead, he goes back to the sofa, seating himself in the corner with a glare.

She wants to throttle him. 

“Really?” Ingrid hisses, closing her fists by her side and then folding her arms. “Alcohol will make you stay? Not family and friends?” 

He doesn’t look at her. He looks at the present shaped like a bottle on the coffee table, jutting his chin upwards. “Open it.” 

“Are you kidding me?” Oh, she _needs_ to throttle him. “I’m not your damned maid, Felix.” 

“I meant,” Felix exhales with the huff of his chest, as he juts his chin again, this time, slightly more to the left. “ _Your_ gift.”

Ingrid’s eyes flutter as she looks over to the presents. Specifically, the one right beside the Kupala whisky. “This one?”

He nods, eyeing the gift as she reaches for it. 

Ingrid’s fingers unfold the clumsily wrapped gift, stamped with sticky tape which glued the corners and hid small tears, evidence of frustration. Through the tears, accents of gold peek through, and as she finishes opening the gift, her eyes shine.

As she unwraps it, Ingrid finds a heavy book, pages gilded gold, with the cover a proud, royal blue. Ingrid flips the book around slowly, like a rotisserie chicken, before then smiling as the chandelier light glints against the gold pages. On the cover is a Faerghus knight, and the title’s fancy lettering reads: 

_The Chronicles of Chivalry: A Complete Edition of Knightly Tales_

“...I’ll admit,” whispers Ingrid, as she runs her fingers over the cover. “This isn’t so bad.” 

Felix’s lips tilt upwards, ever so slightly.

“Quite the nice traditional St. Cichol gift.” Claude smiles as he arrives by her side. “So, do I have a gift, per chance?”

Felix’s slight smile drops instantly. “Why should you?”

Claude swipes the still-wrapped bottle of Kupala whiskey from the table. “This?”

Felix huffs, leaning deeper into the sofa. He props his feet atop the silk, red ottoman. “Bribery?” 

“That’s certainly an accusation.” 

“It’s common for your kind.” 

Rodrigue’s voice rises. “Felix.”

“My…” Claude’s eyes glimpse upwards, tongue rolling in cheek. “‘Kind’?”

Ingrid sighs, gripping Claude’s hand. She tugs it her way. “Don’t take the bait.” 

With a loose shake, he separates himself from Ingrid’s grasp, opting to instead seek out Felix’s glare with his own undecipherable stare. “What would that be, if I may ask?”

Felix meets Claude’s vague stare with a cool gaze. “Foreign agents.”

It takes a moment for Ingrid to process Felix’s words — and even when she does, she can’t do anything but stare with a slack jaw. She manages to spare a glance to Rodrigue, who she finds to be in a fairly similar state. 

"...Wow,” Claude whispers, as he shakes his head with a stiff smile. "Am I being accused of what I think you're accusing me of?"

“Your behaviour begets the accusation, and whatever it is you’re here for—” Felix’s even tone twists into a hiss, “—it’s not Ingrid.” 

Ingrid feels a numbness seize her body. 

A numbness that she has experienced before, more times than she ever wished to feel. A numbness that should have stayed at Garreg Mach, in Continental Year 3020, but which has followed and lingered, reappearing this week, in Continental Year 3028, with a vengeance that sticks, attaches and rips. 

It is her instinct for when something is very, very wrong. 

And she _hates_ it. 

“Felix. Leave.” Rodrigue orders, having finally managed to snap out of his own shocked state. “The disrespect you have shown tonight is appalling.” 

“I will,” snaps Felix, as he pushes himself up from the lounge. His hands snatch his motorcycle keys off from the end table, shoving it into his back pocket. “Can’t stand the stink of artificiality anyway.” 

Ingrid snaps out of her daze. The stink? “Shut your mouth. Just leave.” 

“Oh, but he doesn’t _have_ to leave, does he?” Claude sighs with a smile. “We were just having a nice chat. One that I would very much like to continue.” 

“He does,” spits Ingrid. _“Leave.”_

“I,” Felix grits his teeth as he snaps back, “ _am.”_

“Alright, alright.” Claude raises his palms in the air, in an attempt to gain their attention. “Just one question for him before he leaves, then.”

Ingrid and Rodrigue both look to Claude with puzzled eyes. Felix, however, doesn’t spare him a glance as he collects the rest of his belongings. 

“What are your plans for St. Cichol Day? I heard you’re not attending tomorrow’s dinner party,” says Claude. “Are you attending Dorothea’s show, at the carols?”

Ingrid stares at Claude. Where is he going with this?

“No,” Felix answers, to her surprise. He grabs his scarf hanging up on a rack by the archway, before then sending another fierce glare Claude’s way. “And it’s none of your damn business.”

That's more like it. 

“Fair enough. But,” Claude’s lips tugs at one corner, in a most subtle smile, before he continues, “would the knowledge that Annette will be attending change your mind?”

The glare, sneer and glower from Felix’s expression falls. Instead, it is replaced with blank, unadulterated shock.

Ingrid finds herself mirroring his blank expression as she glances over to Claude, then Rodrigue, then back to Felix — who abandons his scarf on the floor as he gives five even steps across towards Claude. 

Felix’s voice is steady as he speaks. “Get ready.” 

Claude’s innocent smile flickers for a moment, as he tips his head to the side. “For what?”

“I’m going to punch you.”

Before Ingrid can react, Felix dashes towards Claude, grabbing him by the collar and falling with him against the carpeted floor. There is a loud thud, then the cracking of knuckles against skin, battering against bone.

It is only when they crash into the end table, causing the toppling and crash of the antique lamp that the family has had for ages, that the adrenaline in her system kicks in. 

“Felix, you _fucker—”_ Ingrid yells, fingers digging in the back of his leather jacket as she attempts to pull him away from Claude. Her strength proving useless, she steps into Felix’s back with her heel. He winces, and she slips off her other shoe, nearly tripping over as Rodrigue dashes to pull Felix off Claude, then battering his head with her red stiletto. “How _dare_ you—” Ingrid’s flesh runs hot as she continues to bash his body with her heel, even as Rodrigue drags him to the side, "— _touch him!_ ”

Felix wipes his mouth, blood dripping from his teeth. He snarls, and Ingrid feels the urge to look away as she sees his teeth painted red, but the anger and adrenaline override her instinct. 

He yells, “He fucking deserved it!” 

“No, he fucking didn’t!” Ingrid yells, rushing to grab Felix’s collar, only to feel strong arms hold her back by her waist. She looks over, and she feels a tight, hot feeling in her chest, tears pooling in her eyes, as she sees Claude’s battered face, splattered with blood. “Oh, goddess, Claude—” Ingrid cries, “I’m so sorry. I’m so—”

Claude offers a soft smile, taking her closer in his arms. As Ingrid sobs, she feels a presence by the coffee table and so she looks back.

Her tears cease. 

“And you have the _gall_ to take the whiskey?” Ingrid barks a sharp laugh. She then sneers, as she rushes for Felix yet again, only to feel strong arms hold her back — Claude, but who fucking cares anymore. “You fucking alcoholic! Get a fucking grip, she’s never coming back!”

As he runs passed the archway, Felix shouts, “Think I don’t know that?”

Ingrid chases after him, slipping out of the one heel she had left, but is slowed down as Claude attempts to soothe her with hushes and a grasp for her wrist. She hisses over her shoulder, “Let me go!”

Claude relents, and Ingrid whips her head back to find Felix by the front door, holding it open with red eyes and red lips. 

“Why the fuck do you think I fucking drink in the fucking first place?” Felix screams, voice hoarse and scratchy and full of vitriol, acidic, sharp as a needle, _hurt_. “It’s all _her!”_

The door clangs shut, snow whooshing inside with the force of the swing.

Ingrid stares after the empty door, watching as the snow melts under the warmth of the heater.

Her anger feels cut off. There is nowhere for it to travel. No circuit for it to process the hot, sparkling electricity of her anger.

Ingrid doesn’t know what to feel. Especially after his last words.

She never knew. 

“So,” Claude blows out a breath, lips fluttering. “That hurt. A lot.”

“Oh goddess, Claude,” whispers Ingrid as she turns around, cupping his cheek. “Are you okay? I’m so sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with—” 

Claude winces, taking a step away from her. “—Ow, ow! Not the cheek, please.” 

"Oh goddess, let me get the—"

“Ingrid, my girl, here’s the first aid kit.” Rodrigue appears behind them, kit in hand. He passes her the kit, and Ingrid notices how his hand trembles. She freezes at the sight. Rodrigue _never_ trembles. Rubbing his hands over his face, Rodrigue looks as if he's aged about a decade. “I’ll go call his psychologist.”

Ingrid pauses. “He’s seeing a psychologist?”

“He _was,_ but then he stopped. And I let him, when I shouldn't have.” Rodrigue covers his eyes with his palm, before letting out a shivery sigh. Ingrid reconsiders her previous thought — he’s aged by _two_ decades. “...I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” 

“It's fine. I’ve had worse. Plus,” Claude shrugs, as if he just ate a not so nice sandwich. As if he wasn’t just pummelled by an FBI agent. He directs a shining smile her way. “I had my knight in shining armour come to my rescue, after all.” 

She gives a choked laugh, despite everything. “Well,” she whispers, “Anything for my Almyran princess.” 

“Oh, I’m swooning.” Claude sighs as he cradles his hands to his heart. Ingrid gasps as blood falls from his mouth. “ _And_ bleeding. Help?”

Tears threatening to spill over her cheeks, Ingrid takes Claude back to the living room, spotting Rodrigue in the periphery of her vision, slinking away with his phone in hand.

They sit back onto the sofa in silence, as she begins first aid. “Oh goddess,” she cries, “We might need to call the ambulance.”

“At this level, it’ll be alright. Here, I’ll show you what you need to do.” Claude reaches for the first aid kit, then explaining whats, whys and hows of what she has to do. 

Despite her best efforts to concentrate, however, all Ingrid can feel is that familiar numbness taking over all sensation. 

_Whatever it is you’re here for—_

“You alright?”

She looks up and nods. “Yeah.” 

_It’s not Ingrid._

She lets her eyes flutter shut for just a moment. 

Why won’t it just shut up?

* * *

Sylvain  
  
**Today** 8:28 PM  
Felix fucking punched Claude  
**Today** 9:30 PM  
Well did he deserve it?  
What.  
Sorry I phrased that weird it's just that Felix never gets angry without a reason yeah?  
Just because he had a reason it doesn't mean he's allowed to punch my boyfriend  
yeah of course  
I'm sorry but I'm not myself right now  
Could you keep an eye on him for me? I don't even want to think about him anymore  
Yeah of course, see you tomorrow  
Thanks, see you soon

_Fine Claude did mention Annette and Glenn but_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHY DON'T I JUST SHUT UP
> 
> I STILL HAD LIKE THREE SCENES TO WRITE. FCK!!!!
> 
> This chapter. Is. Too. FCKING. LONG!!!! These past two chapters are the longest I expect my chapters to ever get. Still, I can't believe I managed to keep my promise with a certain reader (you know who you are dear :)).
> 
> BUT ANYWAY
> 
> Ya'll, the comments on the last chapter have been absolutely amazing. I just wanna say. I appreciate ALL of you. The shitposters, my lovely Chinese readers, the people who leave such lovely, sweet and encouraging comments, and my beautiful mutuals (you guys know who you are). 
> 
> Now, like, ugh. I can push out ANY number of babies now!! ANY!! Do you guys realise the power you have given me?? It is insanity. 
> 
> But if there’s something this has taught me. It would be that HUMAN GREED NO LIMIT!! I STILL AM SUCH A HOE FOR COMMENTS. I HAVE A HOE DEBT. HELP!!! I WILL CONTINUE TO HOE FOR COMMENTS UNTIL THE END OF FCKN TIME!!!!!
> 
> ALSO I NEED MUSIC TO WRITE TO!!!! I've burned through the 1975's albums. I need more music. Ya'll I'm easy, a reader recommended Nickelback to me, and honestly, it was SUCH a bop. 
> 
> Also: Shoutout to Nightsdawn for giving my sober ass the greatest advice! "You just don't need to mention how much alcohol she's had." 
> 
> GENIUS!!!
> 
> Next Chapter: (July 24th AKA Claude’s B-Day ((though 25th in my time zone down under however wHOOPS))


	5. He Needs Me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ON THE LAST EPISODE OF CHAMPAGNE, WINE AND VODKA...
> 
> HAPPY BIRTHDAY CLAUDE!!!!!!! I LOVE YOU!!!!!!
> 
> -
> 
> Do not read the comments if you have not read chapter 6. The endnotes explain why.

Ingrid tries not to open her eyes.

What she does try, however, is to let the sound of rainfall emanating from her phone lull her to sleep. When that doesn’t work, she tries to shift to another sleeping position. The left side, the right, the stomach and then back to the basic boring back.

She even tries counting pegasi. One, two, three pegasi. Then in the little Srengese she knows from Sylvain. Vrich, jur, sett...she has no idea what pegasus is in their tongue, so she skips it. Duscurian, then. Rhut, tuhl, brahs — hold on, was pegasus _opha_ or _anu_? She tries to access her memory, in an attempt to recall the time Dedue taught her the tongue twister pertaining to pegasi, but—

It doesn’t matter. After all, counting pegasi —as it should have been obvious from the start—does absolutely nothing.

And so, Ingrid opens her eyes.

She can’t sleep.

Which is odd, because her body clock is impeccably reliable. The moment the hour hand hits ten p.m., her body shuts down, beginning its process of recuperation after a long day.

And today was an especially long day.

Perhaps that is the issue — because too much happened.

Ingrid sighs.

She really can’t sleep.

_“...Welcome to the Midnight Talk, where we discuss…”_

Neither can he, she supposes.

Ingrid lugs her body off of the bed. She slips on the hotel slippers as she slides over to the door, cracking it open. Dim light emanating from the T.V screen, she finds Claude on the leather sofa, a cup of tea in his hand and a frozen ice pack to his cheek.

Ingrid trots over, a heaviness to her gait, before then smacking herself down onto the couch next to him.

Claude looks over, his lips meeting the rim of the cup. “Can’t sleep?”

She shakes her head, arms kept close to her chest, as she brings her legs up on the sofa. “No.” 

For some time, Claude merely stares. Then, as she shifts under his gaze, he sighs through his nose before then nudging her his cup of tea.

She looks over. He smiles. “Chamomile. Your favourite.”

Ingrid sighs, shuffling her legs off the couch. Her feet touch the carpeted flooring as she replies, “It’s fine, I’ll just make my own.”

He lightly tugs her wrist, pulling her back to sit on the couch. She doesn’t resist. 

“Take it. It doesn’t quite hit the spot for me anyway.”

Ingrid stares at him in silence. He returns the stare. 

With a sigh, she nods, taking the cup from his hands. The tips of her icy fingers warm, and the steam wafts up to fan her cheeks. It feels nice. 

Ingrid watches the T.V as she sips at the warm cup of chamomile. However, despite her best attempts, she finds it useless in distracting her from this strange, tense silence between her and Claude. 

Her eyes flicker over to him. He is still staring at her, elbow propped against the sofa arm, ice pack to his cheek. She frowns, looking back down at her cup. 

“...Hey,” His voice is soft. Comforting. “What’s wrong?” 

She reaches out, cupping his hand over the ice pack. The warmth of his hand contrasts against the cool of the ice. She whispers, “...Does it hurt?”

Claude closes his eyes, breathing through his nose as he nuzzles closer into her hand. Her heart flutters at the sight, and similarly, his eyes flutter open. 

“I won’t lie. It does.” Claude gives a one-sided shrug and a one-sided smile. “But it should be good by tomorrow.”

A stab of guilt prickles at Ingrid. Looking away, she mutters, “I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” Claude reaches for her hand and Ingrid glances upwards. His smile is comforting. “It’s fine. I deserved it anyway.”

The admission of guilt surprises her. Most likely because she still does not know her own verdict on the matter. But she is a defence attorney, so it is in her nature to defend. Even if she comes to regret her action, without fail, her first instinct is always to defend. Sometimes, to her detriment. 

Still, there is one thing that she can say without hesitation. 

“Violence is never acceptable. No matter the situation.”

Claude scoffs, shaking his head with a grin, dimples showing. “Pardon me, but is this coming from the same woman who battered a man senseless with a stiletto?” 

Revision: _some_ hesitation. 

Now. Time to defend _herself._

Ingrid sputters, argument building in her mind as she speaks, “Well, that was—”

“—Not that I’m complaining. I felt protected and adored,” says Claude. He ‘swoons’, sinking into the sofa, with the back of his hand pressed against his forehead. A dramatic sigh completes the scene with a sense of gravitas. “Oh, hold me, my knight.” 

“Oh, whatever.” Ingrid huffs, her lips tugging upwards despite herself. She then looks down to the mug, the slight hint of a smile dissipating as she brings the cup back to her lips. Mouth pressed against the rim and eyes glancing his way, she mutters, “...Still. Why did you provoke him?”

Claude returns her unsure glimpses with a few slow blinks as their eyes meet, his smile remaining loose. Then, he shuffles deeper into the sofa, propping his legs atop the coffee table, eyes now directed towards the T.V screen. 

“You know, I’ve never told you this. But…” Claude’s tone grows hush, in a manner that somehow commands more attention than a yell. “I was bullied as a child.” 

Ingrid pauses, before then twisting her body around to face him. 

“Oh?” she says, which is all she can say, in fear of interrupting or scaring him away. 

After all, this is the first time he’s ever spoken of his childhood. 

“Because of my heritage. Because my mother was from Leicester,” says Claude, steady gaze remaining on the T.V screen. He gives a small huff of laughter, lips meeting to form a small smile. “Yeah, they really didn’t like that.” 

“It shouldn’t matter.”

He glances her way, a mere flicker. Then, he returns his eyes back to the T.V, a smile plastered on his face. A smile that Ingrid recognises as a defence mechanism. She saw it often. Not just in Claude, but in another.

“It was mostly verbal, sometimes physical. They called me names, but such was their creativity that the insults only ever had to do with my heritage,” Claude chuckles against his fist, before then turning around to Ingrid, finger tapping his nose. “Thank the Goddess they never attacked my nose. I had a complex about it.”

“Why would they? You have a very handsome nose.”

“You know how to pull at a man’s heartstrings, don’t you?” Claude chuckles. She smiles. He nestles deeper into the sofa, resting his nape on the top, eyes looking at the ceiling. “Well, I could handle the bullying. I was a smart kid, I knew how to get back at them. Make it about them. But then…” His voice trails off, smile falling off his parted lips.

Ingrid offers in a whisper, “Then?”

The remnants of Claude’s defensive laissez-faire attitude fall. His jaw tightens, his clenched fist presses deeper against his uninjured cheek, and his eyes darken in a manner that she’s never seen before. 

To put it simply, his expression is the most truthful she has ever seen it be. 

“Then they would bring in my mother.” 

His mother. Another rare topic. 

Ingrid slides closer, not too close, but close enough that he notices her attempt at comfort. He glances at her outstretched hand, eyes fluttering closed yet again as she caresses a stray lock away from his forehead. She whispers, “And what did they say about her?” 

Claude’s eyes open and his expression moulds into one of contempt. Again, Ingrid is taken aback by the truthfulness of his expression, the contempt of his sneer and the tightness of his jaw as it flexes under her touch.

He is showing her _him._

Somehow, she feels joyful, her own expression desperately wanting to curl her lips into a smile, eyes wanting to water at his trust. But this is not the time, nor her time. 

It is _his_ time. 

“They’d say that she was pretty for a Leicester whore, saying how they’d pay for her services. Mind you, these were kids. They no doubt heard it from the adults, which, well,” Claude pauses, a chuckle of an unknown nature leaving him. A mix of amusement and genuine hurt, perhaps. Something difficult. Something that is complex to process. “Was not very fun for kid me to realise.”

Ingrid’s lips part to say something — but the ‘something’ of what she should or needs to say eludes her. Instead, she takes another sip of her tea, letting Claude lead this strange, tense waltz of theirs.

“You know what else was a surprisingly common accusation?” says Claude. “That she was a foreign spy who fucked herself into my father’s bedside and failed to report back home.” 

Ingrid stills at the words. 

‘A foreign spy’. 

She cringes, coming to a realisation.

Damn it. 

“Oh goddess, I am so sorry,” she mutters, palms covering her face in shame, with a sigh. She then pries the cover from her eyes, forcing herself to swallow down that sense of secondhand guilt, so that she can look into Claude’s eyes, in a manner that she hopes conveys her sincerity. “What Felix said must have been so upsetting.” 

“It’s fine.” Claude shrugs, and Ingrid hopes that it is casual and not dismissive or avoidant. “After all, I got him back, didn’t I? And then he got me again, which is fair enough.”

Ingrid is silent as she stares at the bruise on his cheek. She doesn’t want to look at it. She doesn’t want to be silent. But she’s still not over it. She can’t. 

“You know, I’m a pretty amicable guy. So, most things don’t bother me too much,” says Claude. “But there are some things that even I can’t stand. Which, for me, is when people make assumptions about you, based on things that you can't change. And…” He gives her a quick glance, lips parted but wordless. He _looks_ cautious. He is often cautious, but he never _looks_ it. It is a rare sight. 

Smiling gently, she reaches for him and caresses his cheek. “Go on.”

He does, worried lips now tugged into a subtle smile. “Well,” he begins, shifting deeper into the sofa, readjusting his position. “There are things that people shouldn’t even expect you to change, shouldn’t even condemn, because there’s nothing wrong with it in the first place.” 

She hums, encouraging him.

The subtle smile falls, replaced with a stern line. In his eyes, there is a passion, and an arduous quality to his expression of speech as he speaks. 

It is a mesmerising sight. 

He continues, “Whether it’s your ethnicity, sexuality, religion, whatever it is, if it’s not harming anyone, who cares? It’s not wrong. It’s not their right to expect anything else of you.” 

Ingrid blinks at his words, a memory of years ago resurfacing. She looks away, a bile of guilt, shame and regret —a combination most putrid— building in her throat, her veins thrumming with nervous energy. 

Why?

_“Why do you—” Ingrid yells, voice hoarse, tears spilling over her cheeks, “—why do you just take it? Why not tell me that I’m wrong? Because I’m wrong, aren’t I?”_

_He looks at her, his golden earring shining under the dim streetlights, moths fluttering about._

_“Because—”_

Because she was once one of those people.

Nerves still thrumming, Ingrid wets her lips, swallowing down the pebble in her throat as she prepares herself to confess to her sins, her scandals, her slights. “I—”

“—Lend me your ear for a moment. Just for a bit longer,” says Claude. She looks up, finding his hand above hers, a smile on his lips. He winks. “I’ll try to be funny. Or sexy. Your choice.”

“Neither.” She shakes her head. “Just be you.”

He clicks his tongue, bringing his arms close to his chest, folding them. “Damn, I was hoping you’d choose sexy.”

Her shoulders relax, a small huff of laughter leaving her. “No thanks.”

“Very well, then. You asked for not sexy, not funny Claude, so here we go.” Claude sighs. His eyes darken. “It wasn’t just at school. At home, too. My half-siblings tormented me. They really didn’t care for a mixed brother. Or a foreign step-mother, for that matter.” 

“That’s horrible.” It’s a simple platitude. She wants to say more. She should _know_ how to say more. She has in the past, many times, to others. But with Claude, this is new. She doesn’t know how to tread, but she’ll keep trying, as awkward and stumbling as it may be. “Did your parents do anything?”

“Well, they told me to fight back. Physically. Let’s just say that I ignored _that_ nugget of wisdom,” says Claude, the arms on his chest bouncing as he chuckles. A long breath leaves him. “I mean, the youngest half-brother was four years older than me. Had to think of a different strategy, then.”

“Wise decision,” says Ingrid. She then pauses. “You know…”

He hums. “Hm?”

She hesitates, tongue flickering over her bottom lip. Still, she continues, “You’ve never talked about your family before.”

“I’m surprised that you never asked.” Claude shrugs. He glances her way, eyes curious. “Why didn’t you, by the way?” 

“I could sense that it was a topic you didn’t want me to bring up.”

“The irony of that statement.” Claude laughs and his head lightly bumps against the sofa head. He then looks over to her with a smile. “If I were you, I would’ve gone digging exactly _because_ you didn’t want me digging. Which,” Claude points to his bruised cheek, “is what caused _this_.”

“Well,” Ingrid sighs. Right. “I hope you’ve learned from it.” 

“I’ll admit, it’s something that I need to work on,” says Claude, shrugging. 

She glares. “And?"

“And I _will_ work on it,” says Claude. He smiles. “For you.”

“Good, then.” Ingrid smiles back, a warmth blooming in her chest. She then looks down. The bloom dissolves into a pained thudding of her heart, as her mind carries her to another time. “You know, while I haven’t personally been through what you have, I know someone who has.”

Claude hums a simple, “Oh?” 

“Not with bullying, but with a complicated home life.” 

“Do I happen to know this person, perchance?” 

She shakes her head. “I can’t say, for their privacy.” 

“Someone I know, then.” Claude nods. She glares. He points to his cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ve learnt my lesson. Feel free to continue, though.”

Ingrid reaches out to cradle her cup of tea again. Lips touching the rim, she begins. 

“When my friend was growing up, his parents weren’t emotionally available. He wanted praise, they gave criticism. He wanted support, they denied it. He wanted love, they didn’t show it.” 

Ingrid thinks of a man from when he was a boy.

She thinks of how he hid in the crowded closets, under the brittle beds, on the rickety roof. All in an attempt to avoid going back home, back to that large, looming mansion. That mansion, with its forest, its lakes and rivers, its five stories. That mansion, which should have been more appealing than her family’s ramshackle, crumbling estate. 

_The cigarette hangs from his bitten teeth as he speaks, "Can’t your family just adopt me?”_

_She seethes._

_He is too young for that. He is also too young for the bottle in his hand. She is also too young to even be here with him, at this time._

_She attempts to swipe it away. He dodges with a sidestep, laughing._

_She frowns. “It’s not funny.”_

_Spitting out the butt onto the road, he crushes it under his sneakers —the shoelaces are untied— before then bringing the lighter back to his lips, another cig already in between his teeth._

_The red fire reflects in his amber eyes._

_“Though, I guess you don’t need another brother, huh?”_

“Any siblings?”

Ingrid snaps out of her reverie. Her hand around the mug tightens. 

“Yes. A brother,” says Ingrid, voice hush. The words are wrangled in her throat _(red, white, a phone call)_ , but she manages to continue. "A brother who tried to kill him.”

With her eyes focused on her own reflection in the tea —her eyes are so puffy, ugh— Ingrid doesn’t see Claude move. Instead, she hears it, with the springs of the sofa protesting as he moves, which she then feels from how the sofa pillows beneath her shift at his weight. 

“That sounds,” Claude pauses. “Complicated. Very, very, complicated.”

She nods, grip still tight. “It is.” 

It was.

“...Something I just realised,” begins Claude, “I don’t think we’ve ever talked about anything like this before. Or is my memory failing me?” 

“No, you’re right.” Ingrid replies, placing the cup back onto the coffee table. She turns her body to face him fully, knees tucked in on the couch. “Actually, I’d say this is the first time you’ve ever been truly vulnerable in front of me.”

Claude blinks. “Oh?”

“You usually try to brush things off. Joke it away. Change the topic.” She smiles, and watches as his lips form one too. “I’m honoured, you know. Proud, too.” 

“Oh, my knight, you make me blush!” Claude squeals, reaching out to roll a magazine, covering his supposedly flushed face. She laughs for some time, and Claude peeks a smile. He then returns the magazine, resettling his legs atop the coffee table. “...It’s been a long time, now that I think about it.”

“Since what?” 

“Since I’ve opened up to someone,” he whispers. “A very, very long time.” 

Ingrid smiles. “I’m glad you could open up to me, then.” 

“...I’m glad too.” Claude smiles back. He then looks away, frowning. “I’m sorry. About today.” 

“No, it’s okay,” says Ingrid, shaking her head. “I understand now. Thank you for opening up to me.” 

“Well,” he says, reaching to lightly grip her hand. His lips press against the top. “Thank you for forgiving me.”

With that, accompanied with a subtle smile on her lips, Ingrid nestles closer into him, head on his shoulder. A heaviness weighs on Ingrid’s body, one that she is grateful for and one that she recognises as her body’s call for sleep. She slowly blinks and her lids feel heavier each time, and so, she shuts her eyes.

Even with her sight resting, though, her hearing is still keen as ever. 

_“...Moving onto the next topic, we will be heading into the jungles and beaches of Brigid, with a little bit of familiar Faerghus winter. Isn’t that right, Sarah?”_

Brigid. Always so warm. How nice. The food, too. Very nice. Like what Petra made for her and Dorothea in Continental—

_“Right you are. After all, who knew that a simple teacher from Faerghus would ever marry into the Brigid royal family. A true rags to riches story, isn’t it?”_

Huh. Interesting. Is a relative of Petra’s marrying? To a Faerghus man, no less?

Ingrid’s eyes fight against the heaviness, eyes blinking open.

The sight jolts her awake. 

“What in the—” Ingrid gawks, body leaning closer to the T.V screen. Oh goddess. It’s actually— “Ashe?”

“So,” Claude hums. “Petra’s getting married? Good on her.”

“Petra,” Ingrid mutters, “and Ashe?”

“You know him?” 

“He’s my ex. What in the world—” Ingrid pauses. The wheels in her head turn as she processes the information. “Oh my goddess, he’s marrying Petra. A princess.”

Claude laughs, eyes crinkled in amusement. “The people that you know, I swear.”

Ingrid huffs, leaning back into the sofa. “Hey, you know her, too.”

Claude replies, “Sure, but it's definitely not _my_ ex who is marrying into royalty.” 

“...Point taken,” Ingrid mutters. Her eyes lock onto the program, ears listening in on the juicy information. 

To think that Ashe went to Brigid —and according to this gossip show, and therefore improbable)— had a one-year fairytale romance with Petra before she revealed all and proposed under the night sky and in the oceans of Dagda.

Knowing Petra, that doesn’t seem so impossible. 

Still. Wow. 

Ingrid mutters under her breath, “Goddess, I can’t even imagine.” 

“Imagine what?”

“Marrying into royalty. Just,” Ingrid pauses, shaking her head, “unbelievable.” 

Claude stills. He then looks over to her, a mix of incredulity and amusement colouring his expression. “You say that despite the people you know?”

“Look, I know politicians, not royalty.” 

Claude counters, “Dimitri’s family line is.” 

Ingrid scoffs, bouncing back against the sofa. “Oh goddess, what era are we talking?” 

“Vive la révolution!” Claude cheers, pumping his fists into the air. Laughing at himself, his fists return to the arms of the couch. “Gotta say though, it’s one of my favourite historical periods. Still mystified that they didn’t off the king's children—”

“—Claude.” 

“Right. Sorry.” Claude sucks in his breath. After a few moments, he says, “Can I ask you a hypothetical? Don’t worry, it’s not offensive.” 

Ingrid nods. “Alright.” 

“Say,” he begins, chin resting on his palm, a silly smile enchanting his lips. “If it turned out that I really was an Almyran princess, what would you do?”

“I would still be your knight in shining armour.” Ingrid smiles, lightly patting his cheek. She then presses her lips against his forehead, feeling his lashes dip against her cheeks, before then pulling back. “Every time.”

Claude sighs with a grin, fanning himself with his hand. “Wow. Now I’m really swooning.”

She furrows her brows. “You weren’t before?”

“I was,” he says, “but now? Even more.”

She laughs.

_“...not quite the simple country bumpkin, is he? After all, his adoptive father is Lonato Gaspard, militant and rebel who attempted to incite a coup in 3019—”_

Ingrid’s hand races for the remote — only to find it not there. Despite its absence, however, there is silence. Her eyes guide her over to Claude, whose finger is pressed against the power button of the remote.

With measured control, he places it back to the coffee table.

“Now.” He smiles, finally meeting her gaze. “We don’t need to hear about all that, do we?”

“...No,” Ingrid whispers. “No, we don’t.” 

“Let’s go back to bed, then.” Claude yawns, jumping off the couch with a long stretch. He turns around to face her, offering her his hand. “We have a long day after us.”

She takes it with a sigh. “I just hope I can fall asleep.”

“I could help, if you’d like?”

She pauses, before then looking over her shoulder with a look. “Oh, really?”

“Really,” he replies. “Let me?”

Ingrid stares, before she whispers, “...Fine.”

As their lips meet, Ingrid feels Claude’s lips flourish into a smile.

Hers do too.

* * *

Dorothea  
  
**Today** 8:42 AM  
Hey, is it okay if we come around 3 or 4pm?  
Of course sweetie🤗  
But more importantly?  
Ingrid  
Sweet, lovely Ingrid  
?  
ASHE AND PETRA!!!!  
CALL ME NOW!!!  
I KNOW RIGHT?!  
**Today** 9:49 AM  
Good call my love😘  
And don't worry I can get us some private time to talk about you know who  
It's fine  
It's compulsory  
Bye my love💕  
  


_I really don't wa_

* * *

“Oh, Ingrid!” Dorothea gasps as she takes the wrapped present from Ingrid’s hands. She shakes her head, palm pressed to her heart with a teary smile. “You shouldn’t have!”

"Don't cry just yet. Come on, open it." Ingrid laughs, as she reaches out to stroke a stray tear from Dorothea’s cheek. With crossed arms and a smile, Ingrid watches as Dorothea sits down by her vanity. "I hope you'll like it."

“Oh, anything from you, I know I’ll just adore!” Dorothea laughs, as she swipes another tear from her cheek. So sentimental. Her pristine and pearly teeth showing, Dorothea’s slender fingers deconstruct the wrapping paper, as if she were handling the world’s most precious jewel.

She gasps.

Ingrid’s grin grows to match Dorothea’s. “Like it?”

“...Ingrid,” whispers Dorothea. She pries the music box from the deconstructed wrapping paper, placing it atop her lap. Her fingers turn the wheel, and the main theme of the classic Adrestrian opera, 'Wilhelm, the Mortal', plays. Another tear sheds, travelling from her cheek to plop against the music box. "Oh, this is just beautiful."

Ingrid smiles, reaching for Dorothea's outstretched hand. She grips it. "I thought of you when I saw it. Was my instinct correct?"

"Yes! Oh, yes! It's absolutely gorgeous," cries Dorothea, tears still streaming down her face —alongside her mascara. Whoops. Her stylist is not going to like that. "Oh, I am going to keep it safe and locked away, amidst all my other treasures!"

Bingo. She knew it.

While the purchase hurt her wallet (that old man was _good)_ , seeing Dorothea so joyful makes it worth every penny. It's only right after so many years of friendship.

"If I may intrude," calls Claude, taking a dainty step beside Ingrid. He pulls out a sizable gift bag. "I have a gift of my own. Though I doubt it'll beat Ingrid's gift, I think you’ll like it nonetheless.” 

"Oh, Claude, you are so right. I promise, though, to try to match the enthusiasm." Dorothea pulls out a handkerchief from her purse, dabbing her wet cheeks. "You see, I have a talent for crying on the spot.”

Claude passes her the bag with a grin. "Oh, but I think these tears will be genuine.” 

She arches her brow, placing the bag on her lap. “Oh really?” 

“Really.” 

"We'll see then, darling. We'll see." Dorothea hums, fingers prying the present out from the gift bag, in a manner less delicate than she was when opening Ingrid’s gift. There are small rips, tears, ribbons forcefully tugged loose — but the shock and joy on her face when met with the gift matches. No. It surpasses it. “You got me a Valentine bag. A _black_ Valentine bag.”

Ingrid looks over to Claude. They meet each other’s eyes with a knowing look, hands intertwining.

He nods, grinning. "I did indeed."

“Those don’t exist on the market!” Dorothea cries out, with such grandeur only capable of an opera star. She fully collapses onto her vanity seat, reaching for a fan. “No matter how many times I wished to the Goddess for a black Valentine bag that would match with my little black dresses, it never happened. How?”

Claude winks. “What can I say? I’m Hilda’s weakness.”

“Oh, Claude, you’re mine!” Dorothea leaps from her chair, wrapping her arms around his neck. With a heavy tug, she pulls him in for a sloppy, lip-stick heavy kiss on the cheek. As he flinches away with a groan, Dorothea hisses as she rushes back. “Oh, right, your injury _._ Sorry.”

Claude offers a tight smile as he presses a hand against his bruised cheek. “It’s all good.”

Frowning, Ingrid reaches out to lightly pat the hand cupping his cheek. His smile loosens into a gentle one as he looks down on her.

Dorothea crosses her arms as she sighs, frowning. “That bull got you good, didn’t he?”

“He did indeed,” Claude sighs, lightly patting his cheek. “Could you avenge me?”

“Oh, anything for the man who got me a _black_ Valentine bag,” says Dorothea. She then sighs through her nose, twirling a stray lock of hair with her finger. “Though, I do have a small request.”

“Anything for the woman who will avenge me.”

“Oh sweetie,” Dorothea cooes, patting his chest. “Could you leave? Girl talk.”

“Madam!” Claude backs off with the click of his tongue, hands raised. “Rather sudden, don’t you think?”

“Sure, but,” Dorothea hums, twirling a lock of her heavily curled hair. “Did you not say ‘anything for the woman who will avenge me’?”

Claude replies, ‘Twas simple hyperbole.”

“My statement wasn’t,” Dorothea whispers. “Because I _would_ do anything for the man who got me a black Valentine bag. I swear this to the Goddess.”

As Dorothea gestures to the skies, Ingrid squints. “You’re religious now?”

“Before? No. Now? Yes.” Dorothea blows a kiss to Claude, who catches it and places it in his pocket. Ingrid rolls her eyes, but Dorothea continues, unperturbed. “And he’s _my_ Seiros.”

“Anything for my humble disciple, then.” Claude bows, taking himself to the door leading out her dressing room. “How long do you need?”

“You’ll find out eventually,” replies Dorothea, her plump lips formed into a small smile.

"Very well." Claude nods. "I'll just give myself a small tour of the cathedral, then."

“Thank you kindly." Dorothea waves him goodbye as he closes the door. She then turns around on her four-inch heels, which clack against the flooring as she struts over to Ingrid, hawk-like gaze locking onto her. “So? What did Claude do?”

“I—” Ingrid looks away. Her stare is too intimidating. “—don’t know what you mean.”

“Oh, Ingrid. Don’t be coy, it’ll ruin your perfectly symmetrical face,” Dorothea sighs, squeezing Ingrid's cheeks. She gives a light slap as she pulls away, before then bopping Ingrid's scrunched nose. "Oh, and your cute little button nose. Wrinkles away, sweetie."

"Um," Ingrid mutters. "Pardon?"

Dorothea gives another sigh, this time with more force, as she swings around on her heel, landing on her chair with a thud, arms resting on the side.

“Look. Felix is a dick, and I hate him most of the time, but he always has a reason for being a dick," says Dorothea, crossing her legs, the slit of her dress opening to reveal her stockings. Ingrid's thoughts wonder — such a scandalous outfit choice for the mother of a Saint. "Don't you agree? You know him better than I do, after all."

Ingrid's eyes divert from Dorothea's scanty dress to the floor of the dressing room.

She sighs, because that's exactly what Sylvain said, and if Dorothea is also saying — but who is she kidding. She always knew this. She knows Felix better than Dorothea, maybe even better than Sylvain. They spent their teenage years in the same house, after all.

He's like a brother. Though, more annoying than all of her actual, biological brothers combined. _Much_ more annoying. 

Though, she loves him all the same.

Still—

"Felix isn't exactly innocent, Dorothea." ‘Foreign agent.’ "And no matter what Claude may have said or done, violence is never acceptable."

“Oh, I’m not saying that Claude _deserved_ to be punched. Violence is abhorrent, I agree. But,” Dorothea sighs, getting up from her chair. She grasps Ingrid’s shoulders, long fingernails lightly digging in. “He _did_ do something, right?"

Ingrid looks to the ground. Dorothea's heel steps in closer, and she is forced to look upwards, to confront her friend.

"Yes. He—" Ingrid closes her eyes, a slight numbness crawling up her skin, through her bones, on her tongue, "—asked about Glenn."

"Oof." Dorothea sucks in a breath, nails declawing themselves from Ingrid’s shoulders. "Amateur move, really."

Ingrid shrugs off Dorothea's grasp, sighing. "Well, how could he have known?"

"True." Dorothea hums, finger twirling a lock. "So? What was it, actually?"

Ingrid stares blankly. She then manages to mumble, "What?"

“Look, his brother _is_ a bad topic, but if Claude said anything truly offensive about Glenn — to the extent of being pummelled,” Dorothea wags a finger, walking around in a circle like a famous detective. She then pauses, turning around to point at Ingrid. “Then you would be on Felix’s side, not your darling sweetheart. Aren’t I right?”

At times, Ingrid wishes that Dorothea wasn’t so insightful. This is one of those times —is this how the boys feel?— still, she knows she can’t lie to her. So, Ingrid nods. “Yes.”

Dorothea waits. Her eyes are kind in their gaze, and her lips are formed into a patient smile. It makes it more difficult to confess. 

"He brought up—" Ingrid swallows the gulp in her throat, "—Annette.”

The kindness in Dorothea's gaze shifts into something else. Not anger, or jealousy, or sadness, or disappointment — Ingrid could continue to list off what the gaze is _not._

Still, it doesn't change the fact that she has no idea what Dorothea's expression means. Which is somewhat frightening. 

She attempts a guess; surprise? No. It is too calculated for that. Too discerning.

"Hm," Dorothea hums, her finger still looped around a lock as she walks around in a circle. She stops by the vanity, looking at her reflection in the mirror. Baring teeth, she picks at the dried peels of skin at her lips. "Well. That explains it, doesn't it?"

Apology already formed on her lips, Ingrid marches over to Dorothea's side, hand reaching for her shoulder. “Dorothea, I—”

“—Oh no, sweetie,” Dorothea hushes, pressing a finger against Ingrid’s lips. Ingrid winces, the nail touching the tip of her nose. With a soft smile, Dorothea continues, “This isn't about me. This is about Felix, sorting himself out, and you, dealing with Felix, who is sorting himself out. Right?”

Ingrid gives a hesitant nod.

“Good girl. Now,” Dorothea huffs, returning her finger —and therefore nail— to her side. “Do you think you’ll be able to forgive him?”

Forgiveness. 

Ingrid ponders at the word. She hadn’t even considered that yet. All she can think of when she thinks ‘Felix’ is the image of him battering Claude, the sound of knuckles cracking against bone, and the feel of blood-soaked bandages.

The anger of last night returns. Her fists clench at her side. “No," says Ingrid, but as the word leaves her lips, she sighs. "At least, not now.”

“And that is perfectly fine.” Dorothea smiles softly. It is a comforting sight. She then offers, “Would you like me to speak with him, by any chance?”

Ingrid returns the soft smile, shaking her head. “No, it’s okay. I’ve already asked Sylvain to do that.”

“...Oh? Sylvain?” Dorothea pauses. “You’ve seen him this week, then?”

“Oh, no,” says Ingrid. “We've just texted.”

“You…” Dorothea looks to the side, before then back to Ingrid. She appears confused, for some reason. “Just texted?”

“Yes?” Ingrid frowns. “He’s busy at work. So, we haven’t met up.”

“He’s...busy at work?” Dorothea blinks yet again. Her teeth nibble at her manicured nail —again, she probably shouldn’t do that— before she then hisses under her breath, “That _donkey_.”

Ingrid blinks. “What?”

“Ingrid. Sweet, silly Ingrid. Really? He’s ‘busy at work’?” Dorothea groans, hands in the air. “It’s the end of the year!”

Ingrid stills at Dorothea’s argument. “Exactly. It’s the end of the year.”

Dorothea groans, throwing herself onto her chair, hand to her forehead. So dramatic, even for an opera star. 

“Oh sweetie, it’s the actual end of the year! Work peaks in the _early_ end of year. Now is the holiday! He is _not_ busy. You know this!” 

A knot settles inside Ingrid’s throat, and she swallows it down, hand pressed against her neck. 

‘He’s not busy’. 

She considers the implication behind Dorothea’s words. 

The knot resurfaces. She swallows again, before she utters, “You’re saying that he lied, then?” 

Dorothea moans. “Obviously!”

Sylvain. Lying. 

It’s not uncommon. It happens often enough that her radar is always on and ready. She’s memorised his signs and tells. Excessive fiddling (phone, wallet, napkins, whatever), joking (about him, her, whatever), changing the subject (the weather, food, life, whatever). 

Though, she supposes that through text, such things would be more difficult to detect. Even so, Sylvain would never ignore her. Sure, he could distant at times, but everyone has moments like that. Dimitri could be distant, even Dorothea could be and Felix’s _default_ is to be distant, and—

“Why? Why would he lie? To—” Ingrid pauses. To avoid her? She bites her lip. No. He would never. “—to what end?” 

“Look,” Dorothea sighs as she clambers off of her chair, hands slamming down on Ingrid’s shoulders. Ingrid’s eyes flinch shut, before then opening her eyes to see the hawk gaze locked onto her, desperate sincerity conveyed. “Haven’t you noticed anything _off_ with Sylvain lately? Say, you noticed that he’s been acting less like a human and more like the stupid, lying donkey that he is?” 

Ingrid’s eyes widen. 

She thinks on the past week. Of how his texts, which previously always responded within minutes, slowed down to hours. Of how he seemed so...despondent.

But that was because of work, wasn’t it? That was typical of him when work got busy. During his Sreng campaign, for example. He wouldn’t respond for hours — though, there _was_ the time difference between Sreng and Leicester. 

Still. He would never ignore her. Never. 

Dorothea walks over to her white Valentine bag, rustling through it before pulling out her phone. As she settles in her chair, she beckons Ingrid over with a finger, phone in hand. “Sweetie, let me show you something.” 

With tentative steps, Ingrid follows, settling herself over Dorothea’s shoulder. She watches as Dorothea’s finger pads tap against the phone screen, expertly manoeuvring the keyboard in spite of her long nails. 

Dorothea sends a text. 

Donkey  
  
**Today** 3:32 PM  
Sweetie, I need a thirtieth opinion. Gold or silver jewellery for St. Cethleann’s mother🤔 ?  


The phone _pings._

Donkey  
  
**Today** 3:32 PM  
Sweetie, I need a thirtieth opinion. Gold or silver jewellery for St. Cethleann’s mother🤔 ?  
Silver! Good luck with the show tonight, o mortal mother of a Saint😘 💕  


Ingrid’s eyes widen. 

That was quick. Very quick. Quicker than any response she’s ever gotten from him this past week. 

Dorothea juts her chin, motioning for Ingrid to open her purse. “Call him.”

Shocked into silence, Ingrid follows Dorothea’s command. 

She calls him. 

Ten rings pass. 

The phone cuts off.

“By the goddess,” Ingrid gasps, before then chewing at her bottom lip, hands gripping the phone. “I knew it. He really has been avoiding me.” 

“So you _did_ notice?”

“Yeah, sure, but he said that he was busy. So I thought that he was stressed with work or—” Ingrid pauses, flustered, a hand reaching to interweave with her hair, “—something!”

“No. You wanted to think that.”

The hand in her hair writhing, Ingrid turns to face Dorothea with a glare. “I wanted to _trust_ him, Dorothea.” 

Dorothea nods. “Terrible decision.”

“Well, could you blame me?” Ingrid scoffs. “Everyone’s been acting ‘off’! I don’t even know what ‘normal’ is anymore! Sylvain, Felix, Byleth, even Claude—” 

“—Claude?”

Ingrid stills. “No, not him.” Not anymore. “I misspoke.”

“Alright. Just know that I’m a phone call away if you ever need an ear.” Dorothea nods, a smile on her lips. It then falters as she looks to the side. “Can I just say one thing, though?” 

Ingrid nods.

“Men who seem perfect,” Dorothea’s eyes level to meet hers, “are hiding things.” 

At her friend’s words, Ingrid freezes. What? Claude is _not_ perfect. He’s inquisitive to a fault, at times insensitive to the emotions of others, but he always, always, apologises. 

Always.

“He’s not—”

“—Deeply flawed men, too. Sylvain, for example!” Dorothea cuts in, before Ingrid can get a word in. Intentional, unintentional, she doesn’t know. “Who you should have a chat with.” 

Ingrid presses a hand against her forehead, sighing. “I know. I’ll speak with him at Dedue’s.”

“Mmm,” Dorothea hums, finger to her chin, eyes glancing up. “Before that, I would say.” 

Ingrid looks at her watch, then back to Dorothea. “It’s in two and a half hours.”

“Then good luck getting him to speak in that cramped house with feathers for walls,” says Dorothea, eyes looking over her nails. She then drops her hands to her sides, sighing. “Oh, I’ll be honest. I know something you don’t.”

“What?” Ingrid blinks. “What do you—”

“—And as someone who knows something you don’t,” says Dorothea, pressing a finger against her lips. Ingrid’s nose scrunches again. “I am saying that you should go speak with him. Now.”

Ingrid considers her advice. The go-getter part of her agrees. If Sylvain is avoiding her (the _‘i_ _f’_ is her being generous), then she wants, no, _needs_ to find out the reason, right this moment. But at the same time, is it really the best timing? Wouldn't it be best to wait, approach him when she's calmer? 

There’s also another factor. 

“I can’t leave Claude here,” says Ingrid. “We’re going to the party together.”

“Oh, he’s not a baby. He’ll be fine.” Dorothea rolls her eyes, before then whipping out her phone.

Ingrid’s brows narrow. “What are you—”

“Hello, Dimitri dear,” says Dorothea, voice coated in sweet honey. “Could you do Ingrid a small favour?” 

“Dorothea—” Ingrid groans, before then ripping the phone away from Dorothea’s loose grasp. She presses the phone against her ear. “Why did you call him? He doesn’t—” 

_“Ingrid?”_

Ingrid winces, the volume unexpectedly loud. But more importantly—

“Hey, Dimitri, it’s nothing, I’ll see you at—”

“—Ingrid wants to go speak with Sylvain before dinner,” says Dorothea in an even voice, now seated in her chair. “Could you be a dear and take Claude with you to Dedue’s?” 

How does she expect him to hear—

_“You’re going to go speak with Sylvain?”_

What?

Ingrid checks the phone.

Oh. It's on speaker mode. 

She scoffs. “You are so sly.”

Dorothea giggles. “Oh, you know me! It’s what I do best.” 

Ingrid, rolling her eyes, turns off the speaker mode before then returning the phone to her ear. 

“I want to, but I have to ask Claude first,” she says. "Plus, I'm not even sure if it's a good idea." 

Dimitri’s reply comes after a few moments of silence. _“I think you should, actually.”_

“Oh?” Ingrid’s brows narrow. “Why?”

“ _I, uh,”_ he stammers. Hm. _“It has been awhile since you two have spoken, has it not?”_

“Do you know something?”

_“Well, I...That is to say, um. More importantly, I—”_ Dimitri stutters, words twisting on his tongue. He clears his throat, continuing, _“—will be late to the party due to some work matters. Byleth will be able to take him, however.”_

“Oh.” Ingrid’s hand caresses her arm, soothing raised skin. “Byleth?”

_“Is there a problem?”_

“Oh, no, of course not,” says Ingrid. “I’ll ask Claude, then send her a text. Thanks, Dimitri. See you soon.”

_“See you soon, Ingrid,”_ says Dimitri. After a moment, he continues, _“I hope you and Sylvain have a good talk.”_

And with that, he hangs up. 

Ingrid comes to a conclusion, one that she is confident in. 

Dimitri _definitely_ knows something.

Oh well. That can wait.

Phone dropping with her hand to the side of her hip, Ingrid looks over to Dorothea, who looks so, _so_ pleased with herself. 

Dorothea claps her hands, her plump lips curled into an insufferable grin. “See? It’s all working out!”

“You do realise that I still need to ask Claude,” says Ingrid, passing Dorothea her phone as she shoots up from her chair, coming her way. 

“Get going then!” Dorothea presses her hands against Ingrid’s back, shoving her towards the exit of the dressing room. “And don’t worry, I’ll keep him company until he goes back to the hotel.”

“Don’t you have a show to get ready for?” 

“He can watch me get ready! Makeup and hair only, of course.” Dorothea retorts. She then sucks in a breath, eyes dropping to the floor. “Especially the make-up. Oh, my stylist is not going to be happy with me.”

“I do admit, I was wondering about that,” says Ingrid, as she turns the door knob. She takes her first step out, eyes scanning the area for Claude, but he doesn’t seem to be anywhere close. 

“Ingrid?” Dorothea calls from behind. 

“Hm?” Ingrid hums, another step forward. 

“Whatever it is that Sylvain says to you,” Dorothea’s voice is low and gentle as she speaks. A tone that Ingrid is familiar with, but not when it is used in regard to Sylvain. “Be kind to him, for me. Even if it’s really hard to do so.” 

Before Ingrid can reply, the dressing room door clatters shut.

* * *

Claude  
  
**Today 4:13 PM**  
Has Byleth responded?  
She has indeed😉  
That's good then  
I'm sorry for being so sudden  
Hey I get it! Friendship is important.  
Thanks for being so understanding. See you soon❤️  
❤️  


_I know you're over her but_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT: DO NOT GO READ THE COMMENTS. This chapter was previously combined with Chapter 6, therefore, many comments discuss the happenings in Chapter 6. If you want to read the comments, please do so after reading the next chapter to avoid spoilers!! Sorry :(
> 
> \---------  
> ok fun fact except not so fun: when I was writing claude's dialogue about his experiences as a biracial kid I started. BAWLING!!!!
> 
> CAUSE IT'S MY EXPERIENCE!!!! AND I WAS JUST TRYING TO REMEMBER WHAT KIDS CALLED ME AS A LITTLE GIRL AND I JUST..........CRIED................CAUSE BRO.....IT'S MY EXPERIENCE....KINDA....i was never called a spy LOL. And my family didn't bully me LOL. Also I can barely remember the specific instances of racism i experienced as a child (though as a teen, sure, but nothing super extreme). 
> 
> so maybe not that similar....
> 
> but I did get him for the fe3h personality test JUST SAYIN’....
> 
> BUT ANYWAY
> 
> guys, claude may be a dick, but he's mY DICK1!!!
> 
> Also. Can y’all tell that I love writing from Sylvain’s perspective?! CAUSE HE’S SO FUN!! My wild side runs wild. With Ingrid, I have to restrain myself. Sigh. 
> 
> Next Chapter 15th of August; uni is starting soon.


	6. Conflict Resolution is Neither of Our Strong Suits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ON THE LAST EPISODE OF CHAMPAGNE, WINE AND VODKA...
> 
> [](https://imgflip.com/i/4aaw7g)  
> 
> 
> [](https://imgflip.com/memegenerator)  
> 

Felix🕵🏻   
  
**Yesterday** 10:50 PM   
hey   
Ingrid told me you punched Claude   
And hey I get it I'd like to punch his smug ass face too   
And I know you wouldn't punch someone without a reason   
So I guess what I'm asking for is the reason   
**Today** 10:11 AM   
Hello?   
You dead?   
You must be dead   
**Today** 3:43 PM   
Yeah you're dead   
How do I tell Ingrid? Shit   
Man this sucks   
My best friend...dead   
Dead   
Dead   
DEAD   
D   
E   
A   
Fuck off.   
D   
Or not   
Hurrah   
Alright gonna call you now and keep at it until you pick up   
Fuck   
Off

_Do you really think I want to do thi_

* * *

_"You're pathetic."_

Sylvain sighs, hands returning to lay flat on the floor as he looks at the mess of wrapping paper. Ripped, teared and not at all wrapped, as he should have expected. Gods, he's never going to get this done, is he? 

"Yeah, I know," Sylvain mumbles, rubbing his palms over his face. He glances over to the clock, but with his glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose, it’s blurry. He squints. One hour and...fifty, forty minutes left? Damn it. And he's still not dressed. And his gifts aren’t wrapped. Yeah. He should just not go. Feign ill, or something. He wonders. Would she— "So, why'd you punch him?"

 _"Aren't you angry at yourself?"_ Felix's voice booms from the phone, his insult amplified by speaker mode, and Sylvain flinches away. He throws the phone to the side. It bumps against the carpet. _"For acting like a lackey? All because Ingrid asked you to?"_

She wouldn’t notice. She wouldn’t care. She hasn’t, after all, and why would she? She’s with _him._ Sylvain reaches for another roll of wrapping paper. He should at least pretend to be productive. Maybe then he’ll get a rush of endorphins, or dopamine, serotonin, whatever it’s called.

"Yeah," he says. "So, why did you punch him?"

_"Coward.”_

Sylvain closes his eyes, biting back a swear and a sigh. “Hey,” he begins, “Come on. I’m just asking you one, simple question. I really don’t think I deserve to hear all this crap from you.”

_"You do. You’re a coward. You’re so scared of being the villain, so much so that you’ll do anything she asks you to. You don’t even want to be on the phone with me."_

Now _that_ is a lot of ‘you’. Such a terrible communication style. Communication 101. Never, ever accuse with ‘you’ if you want to have a productive—

_“Get your act together. She'll never love—"_

"—Felix," Sylvain grabs the phone, turning it off speaker mode. He presses the phone against his ear. "You’re really starting to piss me off.” 

_"Likewise. Bye."_

"Wha—" Sylvain groans as the phone cuts off. He re-rings the number, mumbling, "Asshole."

Sylvain calls Felix three times. On his third call, he glances over to the clock. Damn it. He’s running out of time. 

You know what? Yeah. He should just skip. Instead, he should spend St. Cichol day alone, with a bottle of vodka. Or maybe ten. How nostalgic. Just like the good old days in good old Gautier. Except, well, he didn’t have vodka then. Instead, he had hot chocolate with melted marshmallows that his old maid made for him. Bless her soul. 

Felix picks up. _"What?"_

Sylvain sighs into the phone, collapsing onto the carpeted flooring, and something sharp stabs his back. Eh. It’s probably just the scissors. 

"Just tell me why you punched him. Then I'll leave you alone for the rest of eternity. You think I'm doing this because I’m enjoying it?

_“No. You’re doing this because Ingrid asked you to. Coward.”_

“And you are such a pain in the ass,” says Sylvain. “Look, are you going to answer or not?” 

_"Fine,"_ Felix replies, and Sylvain’s ears peak up. _"He chose to be punched."_

Sylvain rolls his eyes. What did he expect? 

"Look, I'm sure he deserved it,” he says, “but that's not answering my question." 

Though, even if Claude _didn’t_ deserve it, Sylvain couldn’t care less. That part goes unsaid, however, because if there’s even a slight chance that information reaches certain ears, then...well. He’s not going to risk it.

 _"You just don't get it, do you?"_ Felix sighs. _"He chose it. He moved to dodge, but then decided against it. I saw it.”_

Sylvain’s thoughts return to the topic at hand. 

What?

“Hold on.” Sylvain jumps off from the floor, walking around in a circle. Some tape sticks to his socks, but he pays it no mind. “You’re saying that he _chose_ to have his ass kicked? By you? Seriously?”

_“What else do you think I mean?”_

“But,” Sylvain looks up. ”Wouldn’t that mean he did it so that _he_ would be the victim? Not the instigator?” 

_“Exactly.”_

Sylvain thinks on Felix’s words. He then comes to a conclusion about _him—_ about Claude von Riegan.

“Wow,” he whispers. “He is a cunning son of a bitch.”

Which he already knew, sure, with the phone call. But this? Wow. What a brilliantly manipulative bastard. He could almost admire it. It’s no doubt a quality that would serve useful in their mutual trade, but he doesn’t, because of one key factor. 

“Does Ingrid know about this?” asks Sylvain. 

Ingrid.

 _“Is that a serious question?”_ Felix scoffs. _“Of course she doesn’t. She’s wrapped around his little finger. Blind to him. It’s disgusting.”_

Sylvain doesn’t appreciate the imagery of a love-sick Ingrid. What he does appreciate, however, is this small nugget of information. Or rather, a gold mine. Because there is an implication —hallelujah— that their seemingly perfect relationship is _not_ perfect. 

Meaning: they _might_ break up. Meaning: he _might_ still have a chance. 

It’s coming from a sick, twisted and wicked place, he knows, but he just can’t help himself, because to his rotten core, he _is_ a sick, twisted and wicked bastard — who is also hopelessly in love. Ugh. Add melodramatic to the list. 

“...Well, uh,” Sylvain pauses, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “Are you gonna tell her that? You know, about the manipulation?” 

_“Why should I bother?”_ says Felix. _“She’s not going to believe me.”_

Damn it. “But if she is being manipulated, don’t you think it’s important that she knows?” 

_“You tell her, then.”_

Tongue resting behind his bottom set of teeth, Sylvain doesn’t reply. He instead considers the suggestion, as biting in tone as it may have been. It’s true. He _could_ , but that would also mean that he’d have to confront Ingrid on the matter and— well. 

That’s a bit much. 

“No. I, uh…” His tongue wets his bottom lip. “I think I’ll pass.” 

_“Thought so.”_ From Felix’s huff and tone of voice, Sylvain knows what expression he’s making. _“So afraid of being the villain."_

Yeah. He’s definitely making his _‘Sylvain, you disgust me’_ face. But honestly? He can’t blame him. A lot of the time, he disgusts himself too. 

_“Another thing.”_

Sylvain blinks out of his self-deprecation, because Felix is choosing to carry on the conversation. Now that’s rare. 

_“He’s definitely had military training. Extensive training, at that.”_

Huh. Interesting. But he’ll admit he doesn’t quite get the relevance. After all, they’ve had military training, as all Faerghus men do. Though, he’s not a Faerghus countryman, so maybe that’s the point?

“So…” Sylvain’s voice trails off. “You think he’s served for Leicester, then?” 

_"No,"_ says Felix. _"Almyra."_

"That—" Sylvain's eyes flicker upwards as he unlocks his distant memory. "—would make sense. They do have compulsory military service, after all."

As a diplomat, it is Sylvain's job to know such things — and although Sreng is his immediate focus, Almyra is ever present in the background of diplomatic considerations. It is the land of oil and gold, after all. Precious, precious oil and gold. 

It's not just Almyra's precious commodities that make other nations tip toe around them (except Leicester, ironically, they're raring to go at it), but its military and their toys. Scary, scary toys that should never be played with. 

But to the collective relief of the Fódlan subcontinent, its current king seems unlikely to ever initiate playtime. 

But his heir, Prince Muhammad II?

A playground bully.

 _“Something stinks about him, Sylvain,”_ says Felix. _“He’s here for something more, and that more? It’s not Ingrid.”_

Huh. Now _that_ is interesting. Very, very interesting. Supremely interesting — but at the same time, he’s still kind of lost as to what Felix is trying to get at. 

“What do you mean by—” Ring, ring, ring. The blare of the intercom interrupting him, Sylvain stops, sighing. “Sorry, someone’s at the door. Just a sec.”

Sylvain treads over his mess of a living room, with the wrapping paper forlorn, mangled and wasted. A long piece of sticky tape attaches itself on his sock, and Sylvain rips it off as he hops down his hallway, swearing under his breath. Damn it. He should call his maid.

He arrives by the intercom. Who could it possibly be? He didn’t go on a drunken online shopping spree again, did he? 

_"It's me. Could you let me in? We need to talk."_

Oh. It's Ingrid.

Ingrid?

"...Felix?"

Ingrid.

_"What?"_

"Why is Ingrid here?"

Felix replies, _"How would I know?"_

_“Please let me in. It’s cold outside.”_

Ingrid is here. And he doesn't know why. Well, he knows the possible reasons why — but none of them are good.

What he knows for a fact, though, is that he is not at all prepared to see her.

Oh gods. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods.

"Felix!" Sylvain hisses into his phone, ducking down to his knees, as if that would help. "Help! Your best friend is in dire peril!"

_"Pathetic."_

"Felix—" Sylvain groans as Felix cuts off the line. "Come on! Friendship goes both ways, you know—"

 _"Sylvain,"_ Ingrid's voice calls from the intercom, striking fear into his heart. Shit, shit, shit! " _I know you're avoiding me."_

Oh.

She does?

Oh no.

No. _Not_ , oh no. Calm down.

He was going to see her at the party anyway. Isn't that why he practiced in the mirror this morning? So that he could play it cool? It'll be fine. He practiced. Even how to smile in front of _him_ — ugh, just the thought of that smug ass makes him wish that he could’ve been the one to punch him. Except, not really, because then _he’d_ be the bad guy. Thanks be to Felix, for taking the fall. 

Though, the fact that Felix is a patronizing, prickly prick dick doesn’t change, _that —_ but anyway!

Ingrid is here, she knows that he’s avoiding her, but now that he thinks about it, he’s surprised it took her so long to— and Sylvain freezes. 

Hold on. 

Does she know _why?_

"...Shit.” Sylvain’s head goes numb, blood rushing to his head. He leans against the wall, phone falling from his hand. He whispers, biting his thumb, "Did that son of a bitch tell her?"

Would he? Would he be _that_ cruel?

Yeah. He could totally be that cruel. That manipulative, cunning, dastardly, motherfu—

_"Sylvain."_

Sylvain’s insidious thoughts freeze, U-turning to shaky normalcy in reaction to Ingrid’s tone of voice. He knows that voice. That cadence. That slight tremble.

Shit.

 _"Please.”_ The fragile, uneven, softness in her voice causes his putrid panic to twist into gut-wrenching guilt. _“Stop ignoring me."_

Realisation hits Sylvain stronger than that time Dimitri drunkenly performed an Adrestrian suplex on him. 

The realisation that he is truly so pathetic. Felix was right. He’s a pathetic, stupid, cowardly caterpillar who would prefer to keep cooped up in his cocoon, rather than brave the world as a bodacious butterfly and get eaten by a hawk. 

In other words, too cowardly to be confronted by the girl he loves, who he even managed to hurt.

"...Sorry, Ingrid,” Sylvain mutters, thumb pressing the button that will lead to his damnation. "I'll let you in, alright?"

He does. Then, like the cowardly caterpillar he is, his first instinct is to run for it. He doesn’t, obviously, because where the hell would he run or hide? Under his queen-sized bed? In his spacious closet? On the top of this goddamn mammoth of an apartment building? 

Honestly, any of that would be nicer than dealing with Ingrid’s wrath. Or rather, dealing with karma, fate, destiny, payback, what’s coming for him, etc, you get it. 

Okay. He might be panicking. Just a little. 

Alright, fine, he’ll be honest.

He’s fucking _panicking_. 

A squawky and long screech leaving him, Sylvain slides down the wall, hands squished against his face. He can _literally_ hear his heartbeat everywhere. In his ears, eyes, veins —how does _that_ even work?— _everywhere_. That’s definitely not healthy. Maybe he should call an ambulance. Then, Ingrid would be so distracted that she wouldn’t even think of bringing up the— he smacks his cheeks. 

“Get a grip, you,” Sylvain grumbles, shooting up, before then jogging around in a tempestuous circle, his socks squeaking against the tiling. “You donkey-caterpillar hybrid. Get it together, man.” 

Or, well, _not_ man because ‘donkey-caterpillar hybrid’— but that’s besides the point, because she’s probably past the tenth floor by now and will _literally_ be here any minute. 

Despite himself, Sylvain can’t help but imagine her visage. What is she wearing? Maybe that viridian dress of hers, with the ruffles at the end of the sleeves. He hopes so, at least, because it carves out her— and what is her _expression?_ Furrowed brows, scrunched up button nose, bitten lips? Hm...interesting! But not really. 

The more interesting question would be: how is she feeling?

The sadistic part of him hopes that she is sad. Sad that he avoided her. Sad because she misses him. Sad that she missed _out_ on him. Contrary to _that_ fucked up sense of entitlement, narcissism and blatant dickery, however, is the masochist in him, which hopes that she is fine. 

Just, fine, and not at all bothered by his absence, because if there’s something he doesn’t ever want, it is to hurt Ingrid. Which, well, he did. But still. It doesn’t feel good. 

But at the same time it kind of does. 

Another realisation hits Sylvain harder than that time Felix gave him a drunken uppercut in a supermarket parking lot at two in the morning. In addition to his status as a pathetic, cowardly and stupid donkey-caterpillar hybrid, he’s a sickening sadomasochist.

“...Man.” A choked laugh leaves Sylvain’s dry throat. He runs his hand through his rustled hair. “I’m so fucked up.”

Speaking of which, he should probably call his parents soon.

But before _that_ train of thought can continue and spiral into nostalgic reminiscence over childhood trauma, there is a ring. Though, not from his phone.

It’s from the front door. 

He cringes.

She’s here. 

Meaning, it’s showtime, _baby_ _,_ for the sadomasochistic, donkey-caterpillar hybrid with daddy _and_ mummy issues. How quaint. 

Goosebumps rising on his skin, breathing uneven and short, heart hammering in ears, eyes, veins (again, how does that even?) — Sylvain’s shaking hand turns the knob. With his fingers shivering and his palm slipping from the sweat, it’s a clumsy effort, but he _does_ manage. 

And then there is Ingrid, in all of her glory. 

Sylvain comes to yet another realisation, though this time, it is as light as he imagines her lips would be on his.

In addition to being a pathetic, stupid coward, he is absolutely hopeless. Because even in a situation like this —where it feels like he’s going on trial with the possibility of the death penalty, for crying out loud— his heart still jumps, his breath still catches and his tongue can’t quite form words from the effect that is created by the mere sight of her. 

But can anyone blame him?

She's so beautiful, after all.

Arms crossed, heels tapping, lips bitten (okay, so he got that one right), Ingrid speaks, “Can I come in?” 

“Y-yeah,” Sylvain stammers, voice cracking. Damn it. He clears his throat, moving out of her way, squeezing himself to the wall. “Go ahead.”

As she passes by him, the waft of her shampoo trails by him also. It’s the familiar, comforting scent of citrus and lemon, which she has employed in her service since her teenage years. Instead of basking in the nostalgic scent, however, his nose scrunches and wrinkles, because there is also a musky intruder to the aroma. 

Men’s cologne. 

Yeah. Still too much spice, for his liking. 

With a metre or so between them, Sylvain follows Ingrid through the hallway. He stays by the end of the hall, however, as Ingrid arrives by the sofa. Her back is turned to him, expression unknowable. There is a nervous tension, an energy between them that feels so different from their usual dynamic. Their dynamic, that is usually so easy, so comforting, so very _them._

The contrast is unsettling. 

Wiping his sweaty palms against the back of his pants, Sylvain gulps before he attempts to break the silence, feet teetering the border of the hall and the living room. 

“So, uh—”

“—Why?” Her voice is only a whisper, but he backs away with a wince as if it were a screech. “Why were you avoiding _me?”_

He knew the question was coming. Still, his answer (if he could even call it that), is anything but eloquent or prepared. 

“Well. You know. It’s just, uh, well—” 

“—And don’t try to pass it off. Don’t joke it away, don’t change the topic.” Ingrid turns on her heel, facing him. Here it is. The wrath. The righteous fury. His karmic fate, to be fulfilled. “Because it’s so obvious! When Dorothea texted, you replied immediately, but when _I_ called—”

Dorothea? 

Dorothea. 

Of course. Oh, she is _so_ cunning—

“—you didn’t pick up.” He expected her to end with the same biting, building momentum of her previous words, but instead, it is a whisper. Her gaze falls to the ground. “Why?

He knows the answer, of course. But he also knows what it would mean for him, were he to answer her question truthfully. 

It would be the end of them, as they both knew it. 

He’s not ready for that. He doesn’t know if he'll ever be. 

“Sylvain.” A warning. “Why?”

Why, why, why. 

A sigh, that feels like a metric ton weighing on his tongue, his throat, his lips, leaves Sylvain. His hands drag down his face, landing on his collar. He looks back to Ingrid. As he knew she would be, she is watching, analysing and assessing. 

Sylvain points to the sofa. “Have a seat first.”

Her eyes travel over him, still watching, analysing, assessing. Then, her heels click and clack against his flooring as she turns to sit down on the sofa. Her posture is straight, hands resting on her crossed knees. 

Sylvain joins her, and his own posture would worry an orthopedist from how hunched he is.

Palm lingering by his mouth, he speaks, “...I can’t tell you—”

The air ‘whooshes’ as she whips her head to face him. She seethes, “Oh, I am so sick of your—” 

“—now.” He interrupts, ripping his eyes away from his feet to her glare. It’s a terrifying sight, but if he wishes to be sincere, then he’ll just have to take on her intense glare. _“Now_ is just not possible.” 

“What does that even mean?” Ingrid snaps, intense glare twisting into one of added hurt. Now _that_ makes him want to look away. “Don’t you think I have the right to know? Right _now?”_

“Of course you do. One-hundred percent. Even so,” says Sylvain, though in his mind, he is chanting a mantra. To resist his instinct to run, his instinct to change the subject, to joke, because she deserves better than that. “I can’t tell you right now.” 

Not ‘better’ to the extent of being granted the information she desires, but still.

“Then when?”

When. What a question. 

When, when, when. When will he confess everything? His lies and his love? 

Time to seal his fate. “Tomorrow.”

Sylvain cringes. Tomorrow? Oh gods. Tomorrow. But so it must be — so long as it is _not_ now. 

“...Tomorrow?” Ingrid whispers, fingers digging into her crossed arms, skin turning white from the pressure. “Seriously? Don’t you think that’s awfully convenient?” 

“I know.” Sylvain nods, gaze falling to his fiddling fingers. Sucking in a breath, he looks back to her. “But, Ingrid, I promise—”

“I am _sick_ of your promises!” Ingrid yells, shooting up from the sofa. Chest heaving, skin flushed, she continues her rightful fury, “You always, always find new ways to break my trust. I _want_ to trust you, Sylvain! And yet, and yet you...you!”

His eyes widen. 

Oh no.

“And do you even remember? How you promised to never make me cry ever again? Yet look at me,” cries Ingrid. _Literally_ crying, with big, fat dollops of tears falling down her cheeks, down her nape, onto her collarbone. Oh no. No, no, no, no, _no._ “Crying because you were avoiding me. Like we’re still teenagers!” 

He _did_ promise. This promise, he never wanted to break. Ever. 

“Ingrid, please, don’t cry—” 

“—No, I _will_ cry and you’re going to have to deal with it!” 

He panics, and so Sylvain rushes to rely on an old crutch of his. 

“Not if I close my eyes?” 

Humour. 

Ingrid freezes, mouth agape, before then clenching it shut with bitten lips. She sends him an icy glare. Whoops. 

“Sorry,” he mutters, grabbing a tissue box from the coffee table, transporting it by her side. “Here, tissues.” 

Ingrid yanks it away, plopping it onto her lap. She rips at the tissues, causing some wear and tear, before then blowing into them with force of ten hungry Ingrids at a buffet table. 

In turn, Sylvain fiddles with a victim of her rough handling; a stray, unused tissue. 

Tissue pressed to her nose and tears beginning to dry on her cheeks, Ingrid chokes out, “Goddess, why am I even crying? It’s just _you."_

Ouch. But then again, fair. 

With a huff, Ingrid bunches up the tissues, walking over to the rubbish bin by the television. As she throws out the tissues, nose scrunched, she mutters, “Though, you’re not the only one this week.” 

The tissue in his hands now decimated, Sylvain’s hands fall onto his lap. “Felix?”

“Yes.” Ingrid sighs. She turns back to face him, leaning on the wall. Damn it. Even with a tissue stuffed up her nose, she still looks attractive. He can’t even pull that off. “Did you speak with him, by the way?” 

Oh. So, they’re moving on? Well. Crying is cathartic, after all. So...good for him?

Except not. Because it still doesn't change the fact that he made Ingrid cry. 

Fuck. 

“...Yeah, I did,” Sylvain mumbles. “He didn’t say much, though.”

She huffs, rolling her eyes. “Typical.”

Silence. 

Now. How to break this silence? Should he direct their conversation to their original topic, or divert it? Should he let her begin? Should he keep talking about Felix? 

_“She’s blind to him.”_

“So...” Sylvain draws out the vowel, eyes glancing up and back to Ingrid. “How’s Claude?” 

There is a beat of silence and tension. Then, she says, still leaning onto the wall, “He’s better. His cheek is still bruised, though.”

Sylvain admits to himself. He would _pay_ to see that. Although, he doesn’t have to, considering the fact that he’s going to the party. 

Ugh. He has to see _him_ with _her._ What a—

He blinks. Hold on. 

They’re _not_ perfect together. Right? So. Yeah. This could be his chance to find out some more details, isn't it? 

“But, uh,” says Sylvain, biting his lips, fingers lacing and unlacing. “How are the both of you? Things going well?”

Ingrid blinks in surprise at his question, so he allows himself to hope— 

“Yeah.” She smiles. It’s the first smile he’s seen from her since she’s arrived. “We’re good.”

Sylvain nods, looking down at his intertwined hands. “Great.”

He shouldn’t have asked.

“But the reason why I’m here isn’t to talk about Claude,” Ingrid’s voice is back to her previous harshness. The tonal dissonance is disorientating. “I’m here for _you.”_

Were it not for the context, that sentence would have had him jumping in joy. Instead, he sinks deeper into the sofa, a haze blanketing his mind. “Yeah. I know.”

From the way she sighs, he can tell that she’s dissatisfied by his lacklustre response. Even so, she saunters back over, looking over him. Sylvain’s eyes rise from her shoes to her face.

“...Hey,” he begins. “I know my words are empty at this point, but I really mean it when I say that I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.”

Well. He’s _trying_ to mean it. Even so, his promise sounds like a lie to himself, because is he really going to tell her a decade’s worth of secret-keeping _tomorrow?_ Such a bizarre thought.

But he has to, doesn’t he?

It’s the only way to fix this. Well, not fix.

End, more like. 

She sighs. It’s soft, not harsh. He hopes it’s a good sign. “Why not now?”

“Well, if I do,” Sylvain blows out a breath, lips fluttering. “It’ll make Dedue’s dinner party really awkward. I’d prefer to avoid that, for everyone else’s sake.” 

She arches a brow. “You don’t think it’ll be awkward already?”

“I’m hoping that my charm and good looks will somehow ease your anger by the time of the party,” he jokes. Whew. It feels good to be able to deploy his defence mechanism again. “Or I am way off mark?” 

Ingrid doesn’t reply. Instead, she looks to the side. She looks...thoughtful, which he hopes is a good sign.

His hope is then dismantled by the way her nose scrunches in disgust as she looks upon his rampant tissue tearing. Whoops. 

“Really?” says Ingrid, as she gathers the remnants of tissue. “You just had to shred it to pieces?” 

Sylvain looks down in shame. The enhanced edition of it, more like, cause all he’s felt this entire time is shame. 

“...And what is this stain?”

He looks up, then over to where her gaze is. Right. He nearly forgot about that. 

“Oh, that?" he says. "Red wine.”

“Wha—” Ingrid gawks. “From how long ago?”

“Like,” Sylvain’s eyes glance upwards. “A week?” 

“Sylvain,” says Ingrid, “didn’t this sofa cost you thousands?” 

“Sure but,” says Sylvain, with a shrug. “It’s just a stain.” 

“I—” Ingrid yells, raising a finger. She then curls it back to her side with a breathy huff. “I’m not going to bother.”

He chuckles and— wait. Did she just smile? 

But before he can confirm his suspicions, Ingrid’s eyes rip away from his. Sylvain follows her line of sight. 

Oh. Whoops. 

“...Why does your living room look like a warzone?” Ingrid mutters. She then turns back to face him. “And you still haven’t wrapped your presents?” 

Sylvain’s eyes flicker away, hand rubbing his nape. “Yeah, well, I _was_ wrapping it, but then you arrived—”

“—Hold on, how long do we have until the party?” Ingrid looks at her watch. She gasps. “Sylvain! We only have an hour and thirteen minutes!”

Awfully specific, but that’s just Ingrid’s style. 

Sylvain stands up from the sofa. “It’s all good, we’ll make it.”

“Fine, fine, let’s just finish wrapping and then—” Ingrid pauses. Her eyes travel over him, and he squirms, heart beating just a little bit quicker. “Sylvain.”

“U-uh,” he says, voice croaking. Yuck. He clears his throat. “Yeah?” 

“You’re still in your pyjamas.” 

He looks down. “Oh. Right.” 

“Have you even taken a shower today?” Ingrid gawks, before then pulling him by the collar to catch a whiff of his scent. Her nose scrunches, groaning. She pushes him away by the chest. “Ugh, that answers my question!” 

He presses a hand to his heart. “Rude.”

“Oh, just—” Ingrid gasps, hands raised in exasperation. “Go get ready! I’ll wrap the presents for you.”

“But—”

She seethes. _“Now.”_

Uh oh. She’s in full on mother hen mode, and when that happens, it means that he has no choice. 

Showertime it is, then. 

* * *

As Sylvain showers, his thoughts are quiet. Quiet. Peaceful. Serene.

Quiet. 

Okay, except that’s not true at all. He’s lying. Liar liar, pants on fire (water?). He _wishes_ his thoughts were quiet. They’re not quiet. At all. Because now that he’s had a chance to think to _really_ think about his conversation with Ingrid, he realises that he has dug himself a deeper hole in an attempt to get out of it. 

Because he promised to tell Ingrid everything — tomorrow. 

Fuck. 

Why _tomorrow?_ Why not, like, next week? The day she leaves for Galatea? Or, more appealing to him: never?

Sylvain groans, hands rushing to rinse the shampoo from his bubbled-up scalp. 

He knows he’s being ridiculous. This is his comeuppance. His karma, his fate. The fate of cowardly liars. To be burned by the fires of Ailell. Still, he’s scared shitless and is a nervous wreck. Who can blame him? He has to be _honest._ Confess his doomed love, confess his lies and years of unrequited pining. 

Confess _everything._

He would scream, if he could, but Ingrid’s out there and she’ll hear him. Maybe he could sing? 

He begins to sing. 

“Sylvain, if you have time to sing, then hurry the hell up!” Ingrid calls from the living room. “You’ve already been in there for ten minutes!” 

Ten minutes. As if that was long. 

This is the quickest he’s ever tried to have a shower, for crying out loud! He _is_ trying, because they’re going to be late to the party, and Ingrid _hates_ being late for anything.

But he’ll admit it, he’s a ‘long showers, long thoughts’ kind of guy. It’s his time to just chill and...exist for a moment. So, this frantic shampooing and soap lathering and body drying is a foreign concept. Though, _ugh,_ now that he thinks about it, that’s what it was like back in the military, wasn’t it? Yuck, those grimy showers. No wonder he blocked it from his mem— anyway. 

He’s going on a tangent. Focus! It is time to conquer his locks with the hair dryer that he spent way too much money on — and this is coming from a chronic shopaholic with messed up money standards. 

_His_ mission is to finish his shower. _Hers_ is to wrap the presents. Then, off they go to Dedue’s—

Wait. She’s wrapping the presents. 

So. If she’s wrapping the presents, doesn’t that mean she’ll find _her_ present?

Oh no. 

She’ll find the— no. No, it’s fine. He’s wrapped hers, already. The gift that he agonised over. The gift that has a backup plan — which he backed out of, because for once, he was sick of his own cowardice. It’s been a year in the waiting, after all. 

Though, his wrapping job _is_ shoddy. But Ingrid wouldn’t go through the trouble of _re-wrapping_ the gifts, right?

Sylvain witnesses his expression fall in the reflection of his fogged up mirror. 

But she _would._ This is Ingrid he’s talking about. Fussy, perfectionist, detail _and_ task orientated Ingrid. No doubt she’s redoing his shoddy work with her perfectionist mastery — of course she would.

Oh no.

She can’t see _that_ yet _._ He’s not ready. He thought he was, but now that he thinks about it? He really isn’t. 

Oh _no._

Grabbing a towel off his rack and wrapping it around his waist, Sylvain slams the door open. He slides down the hallway, heart palpitating, sweat mixing with the remaining droplets of the shower water.

“Ingrid!” yells Sylvain. “Don’t touch anything!”

Ingrid gasps, whipping her head around to face him, hands flinching away from a present. One that is _not_ her present. Phew. It’s just Dimitri’s. 

Her eyes widen. 

Sylvain blinks.

Her eyes then travel over his body. 

“...Sylvain,” she says, eyes trailing down his chest. Her eyes continue south, landing on his hips. “Why are you wearing only a towel?”

Oh. Right. 

He’s, like, near nude.

“And—” she pauses, eyes still travelling south. “A-are those socks?” 

Oh, right. In addition to his towel, he’s only wearing socks. 

Socks and Ingrid. 

Oh no. He knows where this is going. 

“Sylvain. Do you—” Ingrid pauses, a choked laugh leaving her. “Do you still get dressed socks first?”

A most strange statement to foreign ears, but to theirs, there is an understanding. 

Ever since Sylvain was a child, he had an unbreakable rule. He _had_ to get dressed from the socks first. There were no exceptions to this rule. 

Underwear? No. Pants? No. Shirts? No. It had to be socks first. From ages four to eleven, he observed this rule even in the summertime. He’d take it off immediately after his other clothes, sure, because he couldn’t handle the added heat of sticky socks on his feet, but it had to be done. Now, he doesn’t do it in the summer, but he still has an itch for it in the other seasons. Plus, he just likes socks. 

Young Dimitri found it confusing. Little Felix found it weird. For some reason, Girl Ingrid had found it ‘cracking up to the extent of wheezing and choking’ level _hilarious._

(His childhood psychologist said otherwise, however, but that is neither here nor there.)

“Just—” Sylvain flushes, and he can just tell by her growing grin that the red is showing on his bare skin. “Stop looking at the gifts, okay?” 

“You do!” Ingrid yells, eyes bright and hearty laughter leaving her lungs. She falls back onto the carpeting, chortling into her hands. “I can’t believe this. That’s so _cute!”_

Cute. Such an emasculating compliment. Still, he’ll take it. 

Fine. He’ll admit it. His heart skipped a beat, because she just called him _cute._ And she _likes_ cute guys! Current boyfriend notwithstanding. 

Eyes checking for her gift —good, she hasn’t touched it— Sylvain ducks back into the hallway. He yells, “Yeah, whatever! Just, you don’t need to rewrap anything, alright?”

“Fine, fine.” She waves her hand, turning her back to him and crawling back to the gifts. 

As he returns to the bathroom, he can still hear her cackles and chortles — and despite the humiliation and embarrassment, he doesn’t regret it one bit. 

Because he got to see her smile and hear her laugh. 

It doesn’t make up for the fact he made her cry, sure. 

But she deserves to feel happy.

* * *

“Are you done?”

Sylvain lands by Ingrid’s side with a light jog. Hands on hips, he gives her a little twirl. “Done. Thoughts?” 

She huffs, arms crossed. “Lacklustre, considering how long you took.”

“Come on. It was thirty minutes tops, shower included,” he defends. “And you know me. That is a personal record.” 

Ingrid sighs, adjusting her purse strap as she trots down the hall. 

His smile falls. He was, after all, hoping that the sock incident would revive her spirits, even if it was just a little. Maybe even forgive him, by just a bit. 

But fair enough. It’s her right. 

“Alright, let’s go then.” Sylvain passes by her, opening the door. She takes a step forward, but then pauses. He gives her a few moments, but she still doesn’t move. “Uh, something wrong?”

“...No. I just realised something,” says Ingrid, looking behind her. “This is the first time that I’ve been to this apartment.” 

“Really?” Sylvain blinks. “Oh, right. I moved in after Sreng.”

After all, the last time Ingrid was in Fhirdiad was just before she moved to Derdriu, accepting Judith’s offer of employment. Around the same time he was shipped off to Sreng, now that he thinks about it. 

Man. The years are passing by quick. He’s already thirty. Oh gods. He's thirty?

“You know,” Ingrid begins, eyes returning to him. “It’s so different from your last apartment. Remember? The one near Liberation Square?” 

He shrugs. “I guess?” 

“...It’s really so different,” Ingrid mutters, before then pointing down the hallway, to the bathroom. “I mean, the old you would never have tolerated not having a bathtub.” 

“Yeah, well,” Sylvain rubs his nape. “People change, don’t they?” 

She looks back at him. For some reason, she looks...surprised? Huh. He didn’t think he said anything profound. 

“That’s—” Ingrid stammers, gaze dropping down to her feet, “—true. People do change.”

“Yeah,” says Sylvain. “I mean, you’ve changed too. Since you’ve moved to Derdriu, I mean.”

She blinks. “I have?”

He shrugs. “A little.”

“...Well,” she says. “I think you’ve changed too.” 

“Not the weird socks thing though, right?” Sylvain jokes, before then biting his bottom lip. Right. Now’s not the time for jokes. “Oh, sorry, I—” 

Ingrid giggles.

Ingrid is _giggling_. In a very soft and cute way, eyes crinkling, teeth showing, eyes glancing down. 

Yeah.

He’s going to remember this moment forever. 

“Right. Well,” Sylvain mutters, feeling the heat creep up on his nape. Clearing his throat, Sylvain steps outside the door, offering her his hand. “Shall we get going? 

Ingrid merely watches from the border of the entrance. 

Sylvain moves to retreat his hand, lips twitching upwards in an awkward smile.

Then, Ingrid whispers, “...Tomorrow.”

Sylvain’s eyes whip back up. Her eyes meet his. It is a measured, watchful gaze. 

“Are you really going to tell me?” 

“I will.”

Ingrid blinks, no doubt surprised by the sincerity in his voice. To be honest, he’s surprised too. But— 

She smiles, offering her hand. “Let’s go, then.”

His heart thudding deep his chest, Sylvain takes her hand. 

Yeah. Tomorrow it is. 

Because she deserves it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to read the comments from the previous chapter now!
> 
> I wonder if any future peeps will comment on this chapter LOL. It'll be so empty for a loooong time...


	7. He Doesn't Want Tonight to End, But I Want Tomorrow to Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On THE LAST EPISODE OF CHAMPAGNE, WINE AND VODKA...  
> 
> 
> Sylvain outs himself as a donkey-caterpillar hybrid. 
> 
> (Mish, this is what I was referring to.)

Ingrid Brandl Galatea knows Sylvain Jose Gautier.

This is not a claim she makes lightly or out of arrogance. It is one made in truth and confidence. It is one, that she believes, is very fair. After all, she has known him since he still struggled to talk in full sentences, while he has known her since she was still in diapers. Though, she doesn’t remember it, being an infant— but that is besides the point. 

The point is that she knows him. Well. Very well. Better than anyone else, she would argue. Better than Felix, better than Dimitri and —she will admit that this is arrogance speaking— better than himself. She knows that he fidgets to distract himself from old habits. She knows that he likes to crunch ice because the cool of it reminds him of frigid, frosty Gautier. She knows that he uses humour as a defence mechanism because he doesn’t like making others, not himself, uncomfortable. 

She even knows that he hasn’t fully realised that. 

And yet—

“...Sylvain?” 

“Uh,” says Sylvain. His hands jostle the car keys in his pocket. “Yeah?”

“What is this car?”

—as she stands here, in front of this foreign object which is outside her comprehension or understanding of ‘Sylvain Jose Gautier’, and nowhere to be found within the depths, crevices and corners of her memory bank, she somehow feels like she knows him less and less. Because right in front of her is _not_ the car that she knew he had: his vintage, one of a kind, discontinued, 2075 Essar 250 GT Silver Snow car. 

The car that made Sylvain Jose Gautier, _of all people_ _,_ save up. For years. Him: a chronic shopaholic with such little sense for money that after she lectured him for eating her breakfast banana at GMU, he estimated its price to be, in his own words — _‘what, like ten dollars?’_

Needless to say, she dragged him with her on the next grocery run. He needed the education. 

Yet, his 2075 Essar 250 GT Silver Snow is nowhere to be seen in his personal garage of the skyrise apartment. Instead, what is before her is a two-seater 3026 Mercedes–Hevring SL sports car. Do not misunderstand— she is _not_ a car aficionado, even if _he_ is. She would never stoop so low as to obsess over luxury vehicles. 

No, Ingrid only knows this car —this goddess forsaken car— because it has cursed her time and time again back in good old dazzling, dizzying and decadent Derdriu. A car whose owners are always —without fail, 100% of the damn time— manchildren with daddy issues who use their daddy’s wallet to buy the damn car in the first place. Which they then use to rush through Derdriu’s jam packed traffic and —she shudders because goddess, it’s all coming back to her now— brag about at bars, while lamenting about daddy but also using daddy’s credit card to pay for drinks. 

To put it simply—

“I would rather die than to be seen in this thing.”

—she _hates_ this car. 

“Hold on.” Sylvain shakes his head, hands raised. He turns to her, brow arched. “You would rather die? Meaning, you would also be okay with running late? Because if we don’t use my car, then we’re going to be _late,_ Ingrid.”

“I know what I said. Also,” says Ingrid, turning away from that goddess forsaken, trauma-etched car, to Sylvain. “What happened to your old car?”

Sylvain’s gaze drops to the ground, hand jostling his car keys in his pant pocket. “I, uh, sold it.”

Her jaw drops. “You sold,” she says. “Your vintage, one of a kind, _discontinued_ 2075 Ess—”

“—Don’t say her name. I’m still in the fourth stage of grief.”

“What—” Ingrid throws her hands in the air, scoffing. Unbelievable. “You wouldn’t be mourning if you hadn’t sold it in the first place!”

“I needed to.”

“If it’s for financial reasons, then _that_ decision was a complete failure,” says Ingrid. “I know how much these cars cost, Sylvain! This was not a cheap buy.”

The price is permanently etched into her memory. At so many parties, so many bars, have the owners of the model informed her of the price. What they failed to realise, however, is that instead of making her want to fall in bed with them, it made her want to grab them by the collar and scream: _’What about all the starving children, jackass?’_

She never did, though. They could, after all, destroy her life and reputation. Privileged pricks. “When did you even buy this car?”

Sylvain freezes. His eyes then look upwards, tongue rolling around in his cheek before he mumbles, “Like, uh…”

“And you wouldn’t lie to me again, would you? Because we’ve just talked about this,” Ingrid says, matching his worried glimpses with her piercing glare. “Right, Sylvain?”

“Right.” He nods, lips in a stern line. “I think...three days ago?” 

“Three days ago?” 

“Yeah.” Sylvain breathes out with a thoughtful look to the side. “Traded it for my old car. Bless her.”

“What?” Ingrid scoffs. “Why?” 

He sighs. “Like I said, I needed to.” 

“Why did you need to?”

Lips formed into a small, unstable grin, Sylvain’s eyes glance from his shoes to her eyes in the manner of a guilty child. “...Can I tell you tomorrow?”

She wants to roll her eyes. Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow. Instead, she presses a hand against her brow and sighs. “Really? Tomorrow?” 

The silly, guilt-ridden smile falls from Sylvain’s lips, which settles into a stern, straight line as he nods. “I mean it, Ingrid. I will.” 

Again. He looks so sincere. 

“...Fine. Whatever,” says Ingrid, adjusting the strap of the large bag filled with gifts. “Let’s just get going.”

Sylvain replies, “What happened to ‘I would rather die’?” 

“I think you misunderstand,” Ingrid brings up her index finger, preparing to explain herself, “I—”

“—I know, I know. I was just kidding,” says Sylvain, the large gift in his hands bouncing as he laughs lightly. He strolls to her side, smiling as he places it down before the boot. “You would rather die than get in this car, but if it meant you could avoid being late, then you would rather ride it. Therefore, you would rather die than be late. Correct?” 

She grins. “Correct.”

“Of course.” Sylvain grins back, as he bumps his elbow against hers with a friendly wink. His eyes then look down, and he chuckles, grin softening into a small, simple smile. “I mean, I like to think that I know you better than anyone else. Other than family, of course.” 

She pauses, considering his words. Other than family, the people who knew her best would be Dimitri, Felix and Sylvain. While she may know Felix better than anyone else due to their shared teen years, however, she doesn’t know if he’d ever say the same about her. And Dimitri is, well, complicated. 

But Sylvain is—

“Well,” Ingrid slowly opens the boot before she continues. “Maybe.” 

For his reply, Sylvain flashes her his smile— the small, simple, even arguably _shy,_ one. She, in turn, returns her focus on the gifts, sorting them into the boot. His very, very, small boot. 

So small that even her pro-level Tetris and Rubik’s cube skills begrudgingly admit defeat.

“Sylvain.” Ingrid turns to look to Sylvain. “Your gifts don’t even fit in the boot.” 

“...Yeah.” Sylvain sucks in a breath, hands on hips. “That’s a problem, isn’t it?”

“Well,” Ingrid snarls. “What do you think?” 

Sylvain raises his hands and steps away from the boot, overflowing with gifts. One gift is especially guilty. So clunky and large. 

“Look, in my defence, I bought the presents before I bought the car.” 

“Sylvain!” Ingrid groans. “It _needs_ to fit!” 

“Well, it doesn’t, right? And if _you_ can’t get it to fit, then no way it will.” Sylvain flips his phone out from his coat pocket. “Look, we can just take a cab. I’ll—”

“No, that’s too expensive, especially today.” Ingrid steps away from the boot, hand pressed against her forehead. She gives him a ‘look’. “And even if I said yes, you’re not paying.”

Sylvain waves a hand. “Fine, fine.”

Now. What to do? Both this goddess forsaken car and cab aren’t feasible options. One is stupid and the other expensive. She will _not_ waste any more money. Maybe the train. Civic Station is relatively close from here, after all and— Dedue’s area doesn’t have a nearby train station. Damn it. 

The bus? That could work. It is rather extensive, after all. There definitely should be a route from the city centre to the fringes. 

But Sylvain would never—

“Eh, we could take the bus?”

—take the bus. 

Hold on. What?

“You?” Ingrid scoffs, shaking her head. “Taking the bus?”

Sylvain Jose Gautier, who had a chauffeur drive him everywhere from elementary to secondary school? 

Sylvain Jose Gautier, who would take his family’s private jet for domestic and international travel until his college years? 

Sylvain Jose Gautier, who would use any opportunity to drive his vintage, one-of-kind, discontinued 2075 Essar 250 GT Silver Snow— which, for some reason, has been replaced by a 3026 Mercedes–Hevring SL sports car?

Sylvain Jose Gautier? Taking the _bus?_

“I mean, yeah?” Sylvain shrugs, before throwing a pointed thumb over his shoulder. “There’s a bus stop near here that I use to go to Dedue’s place, when his garage is full. You know how it is in that area, after all. My car would get smashed.” 

Ingrid Brandl Galatea thought she knew Sylvain Jose Gautier. 

“Uh. You good?”

Now? 

“Oh, sorry. Sure, let’s just take the bus.”

Sylvain heaves up the largest gift in his arms. With no grumbling, groaning or grouching, he simply says, “Sure.”

She’s starting to question it.

* * *

Dedue  
  
**Today** 5:20 PM  
I'm so sorry Dedue but Sylvain and I will be late  
That is fine. Dimitri will also be arriving later.  
Oh right  
Well, thank you for understanding  
By the way, are Claude and Byleth there yet?  
SHE'S HOLDING ME HOSTGE  
that was yslavi  
*Sylvain  
HEEEEEEEEEELP!!!  
again Sylvain  
I had presumed so.

_HOSTAGE SUTUATION CAKBIFGIV_

"Seriously?"

"Help! _Heeeeeelp!_ "

"You're at a _bus_ stop, not a jail. Feel free to run away!" 

* * *

“...I think,” Sylvain whispers, edging closer to her ear, “that old lady farted.”

“Sylvain.” Ingrid clenches her eyes shut, letting out a controlled breath. As she opens her eyes, she looks over to him, finding his barely suppressed smile threatening to break out into a full-on giggle fit. She whispers, “Don’t. Please, don’t.” 

In response, Sylvain nods, shoving his hands back into his pockets. He sinks back into the cracked plush of the bus seat. “Sure, alright.” 

Ingrid glares because he doesn’t mean it. “I—”

“—Shh,” he hushes, pressing a finger against her lips. As his digit returns to his own sly smile, finger pad smudged red by her rouge, Ingrid narrows her brows further, glowering in warning. Even so, his smile doesn’t waver, as he simply replies, “I know.”

She rolls her eyes. 

As Sylvain fully sinks back with his phone, re-immersing himself in his virtual chess match, Ingrid allows her thoughts to wander as the bus drives through the outer fringes of the city. 

Or, less politically correct, the slums of Fhirdiad. Which is also otherwise affectionately nicknamed, ‘the Neighbourhood’ — where drug dealers, the homeless, minority ethnic groups and former, current and to be criminals are your 'neighbours'. Thankfully, Dedue’s own neighbourhood within ‘the Neighbourhood’ is one of the safer ones, being the community hub and centre for Duscurians living in Fhirdiad. 

Or rather, Faerghus in general. Not many leave the city. Finding better work is the goal of most, after all, as it was for Dedue all those years ago. 

All those years ago, when she was still so angry. So vengeful. So misguided and ignorant. No doubt her past self would scream at her, for riding a bus at night into ‘the Neighbourhood’ of all places. Where criminals live. Where miscreants live. Where Duscurians live. 

Though, if she were to be honest, she’s only able to ride this bus because she’s not alone. The crime rates may have improved, but still, caution is compulsory. Fhirdiad in general is not safe, after all. Even in Civic, she has to worry for sneaky purse-snatching, infuriating cat-calling, negligent bike-riding and—

“...Ingrid?”

“Hm?” Ingrid hums, still looking out the window. 

“...She’s back with a vengeance,” Sylvain says, volume still at a whispery low. “A vengeance that kinda smells like egg tarts.” 

Ingrid freezes. She then slowly twists her body to face Sylvain. “No.”

“...Egg tarts,” he continues, ignoring her warning, and a microscopic, semi-repressed squeal leaves her as Ingrid bites her fist. Sylvain’s lips twitch upwards, but he bites it down. Then, he whispers, eyes seeking hers, “With a hint of irritable bowel syndrome.” 

“Sylvain!” Ingrid yells, before she then moves to ceaselessly smack at his shoulder. 

The continuous clapping of her hand against his shoulder, however, is accompanied by her sharp chortles and sniggers. He joins her, cackling, with his lips fixed in a toothy, broad grin. 

Ingrid then glances down the aisle, to the old lady, who is sitting in priority seating, drifting off to sleep. Good, she hasn’t noticed them. Eyes ripping away from the old woman and back to Sylvain, Ingrid whispers with bitten lips, hands clutched to his shoulder, “That’s terrible…!”

Not at all repentant, Sylvain continues to snort and snigger into his hands, keeling over the long back bus seat. Groaning, Ingrid smacks him on the chest, before then pulling him back up by his coat. She opens her mouth, prepared to give him another lecture. 

Then, it hits her. 

“Oh goddess, I smell it now,” Ingrid mock-retches into her hands, trying to escape from that _smell,_ but it’s not enough. It is persistent; the smell of egg tarts with a hint of irritable bowel syndrome— oh goddess, how is that analogy so right yet so _wrong?_

Instinct guiding her, Ingrid buries her face into something that she hopes will muffle the wretched smell — Sylvain’s coat. Or rather, the side of his shoulder. It works in dulling the impact of egg tart IBS, but it also smells of something else. 

_His_ smell, which is decidedly much, much better.

His smell. His smell? Why did she—

_“...Ingrid,” Dimitri says from her door, blue eyes blinking. “Isn’t that—”_

Ingrid wrenches away from him, pushing against his shoulder in a jolted motion— but then the silent killer attacks again, and so she coughs into her palms with a sob.

“Euck. I cannot believe how accurate your analogy is,” she whispers into her palms, eyes glancing at the culprit. The old lady. Who could be someone’s grandma. Ugh. She swallows down the guilt to give her assessment. “It really does smell like rotten egg tarts.”

Sylvain clicks his fingers, middle meeting thumb. “With a hint of irritable—”

“No...!” Ingrid hisses, rushing to press her palms against his mouth, giving him a ‘look’. The look fades, however, as she feels his lips form into a smile against her palms. She returns her hands to her side, wiping them against her pants. “Look, I’m done with you. Go away.”

His answer is a mere shrug, and Ingrid shuffles back into her original position. She crosses her limbs and returns her gaze back to the window. 

Then, the bus comes to a halt. Using the handle of her wheeled duffle bag for support, the old woman hobbles off, acknowledging the bus driver with a slight nod. 

Leaving the remaining customers to just the two of them. 

Meaning?

She can lecture him to her heart’s content. 

“Sylvain! That was horrible!” Ingrid yells, twisting her body to face him. “She could be someone’s grandma, and IBS is a reality for many people! My co-worker—”

“—Look, I acknowledge that it was mean but,” Sylvain pauses, raising a finger. “You’re the one who laughed.” 

Ingrid huffs. “I didn’t _want_ to—”

“—But you _did!”_ Sylvain retorts, wagging the finger in front of her face. A very infuriating finger that she grabs and tosses to the side. It returns and rebounds with a vengeance, however, as he flicks her forehead. “Rude.” 

“You—” Ingrid snaps, preparing her own vengeance flick, only to be expertly dodged, wrist grabbed.

“You can’t flick back, those are the rules. Or have you already forgotten?” 

She hasn’t. How could she? 

During the entirety of her third year at St. Macuil College, the four of them tormented each other with random flicks exclusive to the forehead. This strange, tribalistic game of mini-torture was affectionally titled ‘the Flick' — and Sylvain was the reigning champion. Out of spite, Felix was second, while she was the humble bronze. Dimitri never quite embraced the game, and so, he was in perpetual last place. And an endless victim. 

There was one rule to this madness, however. One that she despised. _'Y_ _ou can’t flick back if you’ve been flicked first. Gotta wait till the next day, losers.’_

Ingrid despised it, because Sylvain always got her first, but she never broke the rule. Ever.

Returning her hands to cross against her chest, Ingrid huffs. “Fine.” 

“Good.” Sylvain nods, nose high in the air, folding his arms over his chest in a manner so insufferable. “Anyway, the law of comedy decrees that if you laughed, you have no right to be offended.” 

“If there were such a law, I think I would’ve heard about it.”

“They don’t teach it at law school, I’m afraid,” says Sylvain. “Too advanced.”

Rolling her eyes, she lightly smacks his shoulder. “Oh, whatever.” 

He laughs. “It’s true!” 

Ignoring him, Ingrid opts to return her gaze back to the window. She cringes, however, at the sight of a homeless man pouring out piss from a milk carton into the gutter. Turning back to Sylvain, she tugs at his coat with a grimace. “Oh goddess, did you see that?” 

“Hm?” Sylvain hums, glancing away from his phone to the window. 

“There was a— a…” Ingrid blinks, as she returns her eyes to the outside world, voice drifting off. Something is...off. “Hold on.” 

Ingrid flips out her phone, checking the map. 

Oh.

“Sylvain.”

_Oh._

“Yeah?”

Oh no. 

“We’ve missed our stop.” 

Sylvain stills, smile dropping from his lips. “Wait. Really?”

Groaning, Ingrid throws her hands into the air. “Yes!” 

They stare at each other in silence. An odd tension builds. 

An odd tension that is broken by Sylvain’s belly laughs, snorts and wheezes, which echo throughout the bus and make her want to _choke_ him. 

“It’s not funny!” Ingrid yells, shooting up from the seat. She checks her watch. Damn it, now they’re _really_ going to be late. “And stop laughing!” 

“It _is_ funny!” Sylvain retorts, laughter joyful and rollicking, ass sliding down the seat to land on the floor of the bus. He bellows, hand grasping to hold his somersaulting stomach. “We missed our stop because of a farting old woman. How is that _not_ funny?”

“Because she’s a person, Sylvain!” Ingrid yells. “And we missed the stop because of _you._ You, who decided to act like a thirteen-year old. You’re thirty! Act like it!” 

“You know,” Sylvain pauses, eyes glancing upwards to the dim light of the bus. “You are the second person to tell me that this week.” 

“And I wonder why.” Ingrid sighs as she presses the buzzer. 

“I honestly have no clue. Care to educate me?” 

Ingrid ignores the obvious provocation. Instead, she eyes the gifts — a specific gift. A specific gift which caused this goddess forsaken bus journey in the first place. 

“And how the hell are we going to carry—” Ingrid taps her heels against the bus floor, giving a muffled groan as she points to the largest gift of them all. _“—this!”_

Instead of giving a thoughtful suggestion to their shared predicament —goddess, how did she get involved in all of this in the first place?— Sylvain instead muffles a gleeful, ear-piercing, high-pitched squeal into his palms. 

“Could you stop laughing and actually be helpful?”

With a loose grin, Sylvain hops up from the floor of the bus. Hauling the mysteriously large gift into his hands with a _‘hup!’,_ he swirls over to Ingrid’s side. 

“You know, this all could have been avoided if we took my car.” 

“Are you serious right now?” Ingrid seethes. “That _thing_ is why we weren’t able to take your damned car. Your ridiculous manwhore car.”

He frowns. “What? It’s not a manwhore car.” 

Ingrid adjusts the strap of the tote bag, filled with _his_ gifts. Not hers. _His._ “Well, the owner is.” 

Sylvain gasps. “How did you know? To think, after all these years my identity as a manwhore has been unveiled—”

“—Shut up. Just, shut up.” 

With that, the bus comes to a halt, arriving at the next stop. They exit, and despite the embarrassment, they acknowledge the driver as they exit. 

He doesn’t return the gesture. Ingrid debates the rudeness and fairness of the action, before then settling on fair. She’d be annoyed at them, too.

And now here they are. 

In the middle of the Neighbourhood. 

In winter. 

In the dark. 

Just the two of them. 

In the Neighbourhood, in the winter, in the dark—

“Man,” says Sylvain from behind her. “The city council should really invest in some street lights here. You can barely see a thing.” 

Calm down. Calm. 

Ingrid brings out her phone, checking the map. 

The relief in her sigh alleviates the heaviness in her chest and the panic thrumming through her veins, because, thank the goddess — it’s not _too_ deep in the Neighbourhood. It’s still the outskirts. Meaning, it’s _relatively_ safe, and relatively close to Dedue’s. Instead of a five-minute walk, it’s—

“Twenty minutes?” Sylvain groans, looking over her shoulder. “Let’s just ask Dedue to pick us up.”

“Deal with the consequences of your own actions,” Ingrid says, lighting the path with her phone’s torch as she begins her march. “We’re walking.” 

“Ingrid,” Sylvain calls from behind. She hears him adjust the large gift in both of his arms before he lands by her side, matching her pace. “Look, I’m fine with that, I can deal with it. But I don’t want _you_ to. Just get Dedue to pick you up.”

“You know that his truck can only fit one passenger.” 

“And the gifts,” he retorts. “You get on the truck. I’ll wait here.”

Ingrid replies, “Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not leaving you here alone.” 

“And I don’t want _you_ to be walking here.”

She purses her lips, retorting in a sickly-sweet voice, reminiscent of Dorothea. “Aw, why? You don’t think you could protect me?” 

“I—” Sylvain freezes, his tongue visibly flailing for words. He then clears his throat, tugging at his scarf. “Look, of course I will. I would never let you get hurt. I swear that.”

Ingrid stares and Sylvain fidgets. Huh. 

“But that’s besides the point,” Sylvain mutters, rubbing his nape, eyes at his shoes. “I just...don’t want to risk it, you know?” 

Ingrid continues to stare and his fidgeting worsens and— is he... _blushing?_

He might, but he might not be. It’s too dark to tell. Curious, Ingrid raises her digital torch to check, but instead of a blush, she sees squinting eyes and a grimace. 

Sylvain blocks the light through filtered fingers. “What?”

“Oh, sorry. My bad,” Ingrid mutters, directing the torch back to the pathway, restarting her march. 

“Ingrid, stop walking ahead!” Sylvain’s dress shoes tap against the concrete as he follows her in a short dash. He arrives by her side with a sigh. “Look, if Dedue won’t do, let’s just get Byleth to pick us up. She’s already at his place, right?”

“Knowing Byleth, she’s already downed a bottle.” Ingrid takes a right corner. “Well, it’s probably three by now.” 

“Sure, but who cares? It’s not like alcohol even affects her,” Sylvain says, persisting. “That woman could down a keg within minutes, then proceed to pass an exam in Garreg Mach, fly a helicopter to Fhirdiad and recite her love for Dimitri in the manner of Jormfyr right in front of parliament.” 

Ingrid notes the increasing number of street lights down the new path. “Who?”

“A Srengese poet from the Ancient era. Fun fact: his poetry is the first recorded in human history.”

“Oh, interesting.” Ingrid files the name away. “I wonder why I’ve never heard of him.”

“Eh, you know how it is with Faerghus and Sreng— but that is not the point, Ingrid,” Sylvain says, _still_ persisting. “Look. I’m sure Dedue hasn’t drunk yet. He can just pick us up with Byleth’s car.” 

At the phrase, _‘He can just pick us up with Byleth’s car’,_ Ingrid stops in her tracks. 

“Did you just hear yourself?” 

Byleth’s car, of all things. No sane man would ever attempt to drive _that_ complicated piece of unknown, foreign, no doubt ridiculously expensive machinery. Though, even that is but a small part of the puzzle that is Byleth Eisner, the strangest woman on the planet. 

“...Good point.” Sylvain sighs. He joins her as she continues to walk. He walks closer. “So, I guess it’s up to me to protect you?” 

“Sure,” says Ingrid. “And I’ll protect you.”

“Ha, alright. We have a deal, then.” Sylvain’s steps match hers, though the tapping of his feet seem to increase. It sounds...giddy, almost. If shoe-tapping _could_ have emotions. She looks to him, finding a frown. “But stick close, okay?” 

“I will,” Ingrid nods. “You too.” 

“I will.” 

* * *

Dedue  
  
**Today** 6:07 PM  
I'm so sorry, I know we're so late, we'll be there in twenty minutes  
No issue.  
becuase of.a ffarting old woman  
...  
Sylvain  
and please don't ask, you'll just encourage him  
Understood.

_egg farts and ibs iuggidwubcifwbibewbouehf/em > _

"Ugh, just stop it already!"

"Never!"

"I hate you."

"No, you don't."

"I do. I really, really do."

"Aw."

"It's your own fault."

* * *

The first ten minutes towards Dedue’s is relatively uneventful. They walk, talk and gawk at the sight of unmentionables — which Sylvain never fails to make into a joke. A joke that, in turn, never fails to make Ingrid laugh. 

Humour has never been her go-to for diffusing tense situations, but when she sees how effectively he wields it, she wishes that she _could_ use it. ‘Could’, because she can admit this to herself — she is not a very funny person. Always the straight man, never the comic. Not that she minds, because each person has their qualities. 

For example, while she could never make a room full of stern Srengese statesmen combust into hysterical laughter, Ingrid can recognise a lying witness and construct a takedown strategy made of pressure, wit and cunning within seconds. 

In other words, she is sharp. 

So, when Sylvain thinks that she won’t notice how he steps closer to her side whenever someone passes by, how he is always surveying for unseen threats, how his hands twitch at a strange sound, because she _seems_ distracted by his jokes — he is wrong. 

She does notice. And she appreciates it. In fact, it’s nostalgic. After all, it’s probably been since their university days that he’s been so on guard for her sake, when they went to bars and clubs together. Tame ones, sure, but still enough for him to always return from a flirting session to check up on her and Dorothea, interrupt when they were being hit on and make sure they made it back home safe. And, in the rare instances that an (always minor, never major) incident _did_ happen, he would always comfort her. 

Ingrid wonders. Would he still—

A shine of light. A breeze too quick. A scream. 

_Her_ scream. 

“Ingrid!”

_His_ yell. 

His strong arms around her. His firm chest against hers. His shaky breath above her head. 

“You nearly hit her, you _fucking_ idiot!” Sylvain seethes, glaring at the culprit, lips curling, his arms around her tightening. “Rot in Aillell! Last I heard, there’s a special corner designated for _your_ kind— idiot fucking cyclists!”

Yes. 

“Hey, Ingrid,” Sylvain whispers, soft and gentle, his cold hands cupping her cheeks, forcing her to stare into his eyes. His viridian reflects in his amber, illuminated by the neon blue streetglow. “Are you alright?” 

He still would.

“Ingrid? Are you hurt?” 

Ingrid blinks, snapping out of her gaze. 

“I—” she begins, weakly, voice soft and shaky because— because the cyclist. She then clears her throat, pushing her hands against his chest, prying herself away from his embrace because— because his hold is starting to hurt her. “I’m fine. Thanks.” 

She doesn’t see his expression as his arms fall back to his side, but she does hear him say, under his breath, as if unsure if he wants to be heard or not, “...Thank the goddess.”

Ingrid adjusts the tote bag on her shoulder and walks on ahead. Sylvain follows from a few paces behind.

Her heart hammers in her ears, her skin prickles into goosebumps and her teeth grit to the extent that it hurts because— 

“Ingrid.”

—why did that feel so _familiar?_

_“Careful,” he says. “A bicycle. At this—”_

“Ingrid!”

She nearly trips as she comes to a halt. With a gulp, she looks over to her shoulder and— gawks. 

“Sorry.” Sylvain offers a sheepish smile. “I, uh, dropped it. When I was trying to protect you.” 

‘It’ being the very large and very pain-in-the-ass gift that caused their damnation in the first place. Now, she could celebrate _its_ damnation, but she is a pragmatist and a frugalist to the core so the sight of the gift on the ground, maybe, probably, possibly broken earns a sharp gasp. 

Because it was _so_ obviously expensive! 

“Damn it, Sylvain,” Ingrid groans, walking over to the dropped gift. 

Sylvain uselessly stares at it. Then uselessly stares at her with a shrug. “Oh well, I was getting sick of carrying that thing anyway. My poor, delicate hands.” 

She gestures for him to pick it up. He does, and she inspects it with a frown. “Do you think it’s broken?” 

Sylvain shrugs, and the gift lifts along with his shoulders. “Dunno. Probably?”

“Was it expensive?” she asks, despite the fact that she knows the answer.

His eyes glance upwards in thought. “Depends on your criteria.”

Translation: very. 

Ugh. 

“Well—” Ingrid pauses for a moment to exhale, “Do you have the receipt?”

“Now _this_ I know the answer to!” Sylvain clicks his fingers from where his hands meet, at the bottom of the box. “The answer is no.” 

“Sylvain!” Ingrid groans. “How many times must I tell you? Keep your receipts!”

“Well, I _did_ break it. It’s not like they’ll let me return it, even if I did have a receipt.” 

Ingrid pinches her brow, sighing. “Ugh, why didn’t you just let me—”

“—Let you get hurt?” Sylvain interrupts. She looks up and finds the lack of amusement in his tone matched in his expression. “That’s a ridiculous statement, if I’ve ever heard one, because you know that I’d rather die than let you get hurt. Even if it’s just a scrape.”

At his words, Ingrid’s eyes widen, lips parting in quiet surprise.

Sylvain, on the other hand, stammers and stumbles and stutters.

“I, uh, mean, not like, you know, in _that_ way. ‘Cause, uh, well, I—” His ramble ceases with his sigh. He searches for her eyes, frowning. “Well. I _did_ mean it, so...yeah. I’m not taking it back.”

Ingrid watches as his fidgeting worsens as the silence continues, tugging at the ribbons, tapping against the gift box, worrying his lip. 

Then, for her reply, she simply whispers, “...You’re always so dramatic.”

With that, Ingrid turns on her heel, restarting her march. Sylvain follows from behind.

His stare burns into her back, and her heart thuds, her cheeks flush with heat and her stomach somersaults and flutters and—

She represses it. She suppresses it. She oppresses it. 

She has to.

“Ingrid.”

She must. 

“Ingrid!”

She freezes, nearly tripping, but this time, she doesn’t look back. “What?”

“I think I found something that might help our predicament.”

His words catch her attention, and so, she looks back. 

Then, she rolls her eyes. “Really?” 

Sylvain grins. “Really.”

Ingrid glares at their ‘helper’.

He’s changed. She won’t deny this. It is evident. It is true. 

But the fact that he’s still such a manchild is not something that has changed. 

It will probably never be.

* * *

Dedue  
  
**Today** 6:17 PM  
[](https://static1.shop033.com/resources/49/1609/picture/54/86351444.jpg)  
BEHOLD!!!  
it's not a messiah and expect usin ten mins sorry for being alte  
IGNORE THE HERETIC!!!  
Do you mean Ingrid?  
NONE OTHER!!!  
hes the heretic  
blasmoehmjubb the church

_*blaspheming_

"Sylvain! I can correct it myself! Give it—"

"Catch me!"

"Oh goddess, what are you starting _now—"_

* * *

“Woo—” Sylvain begins, momentum building as he kicks off the ground, feet attaching to the steps of the shopping cart, before he hoots, “— _hoo!”_

“Sylvain!” Ingrid squeals —in terror, in exhilaration, in combination, who knows— a white-knuckled grip attached to the sides of the spiralling shopping cart, the gifts clattering against her knees. “Stop!” 

“What did you say?” Sylvain shouts, his expression of adrenaline-fueled glee highlighted by the fluorescent street lights. “Faster?”

“No!” Ingrid screams, throat in pain as the wintry attacks and chills. One knuckled grip firmly attached like centuries old gum to a mummy, the other reaches out to whack him on his hand. “Slower!” 

“Got it!” Sylvain laughs, white puffs of air forming from his cold breath. “Faster it is!”

“Sylvain Jose Gautier—” Ingrid shrieks, “—if you do not slow down, I will _throttle_ you!” 

“That’s hot!” 

“Fuck _you!”_

“Please do!”

The words she prepared in retort falling off her lips, Ingrid instead snorts and giggles, throwing her head against the rim of the shopping cart. 

Tone pitched high and so very girlish, in a way not at all ‘professional defence attorney Ingrid Galatea’ but more ‘Ingie from girly girlhood’, Ingie yells back, “I cannot believe you!”

Sylvain cackles, throwing his head back in the manner of a maniacal villain. 

“Well, can you believe—” Sylvain’s feet return to the ground, darting, rushing, darting, pumping _speed,_ “—this?”

An unwilling squeal, shriek and scream leaving her, Ingrid is lightheaded as the already fast ride (ride? It’s just a shopping cart!) increases with even more speed, and she—

A loud clatter. Things against things. A sharp gasp and a series of swears. 

And her, trapped underneath a shopping cart, surrounded by damaged goods. 

And him, uselessly frozen in place, watching her from above with a gaping mouth. 

Ingrid hisses, “Fuck. _You.”_

“Uh…” Sylvain hums dumbly, fidgeting with his fingers. “Please do?”

“You idiot. You _idiot.”_

Sucking in a breath, his eyes glance away to the side. Away from her, away from the fallen gifts. Avoiding responsibility. 

“Yeah, uh,” Sylvain mutters. “Sorry” 

“I don’t care for your apologies,” says Ingrid. “Get me out of here, Sylvain!”

Jolting at her sharp command, Sylvain rushes to help — only to pause, eyes looking to the side, as if considering something. 

“What are you—” Ingrid starts, lecture on her lips, which dissipates when Sylvain pulls out his phone. Light flashes, and she shakes her head. “Seriously?”

“Blackmail.” Sylvain grins, putting the phone back into his pocket. “Now you have to forgive me.”

“I hate you. I hate you _so_ much.”

With a laugh, he hauls the shopping cart off of her, before then pulling her by the wrist with a chuckle. “No, you don’t.”

She bumps against his chest, glaring. “What happened to ‘I’d rather die than let you get hurt’?”

His grin drops. “Wait. _Are_ you hurt?”

Yet again, the sincerity of his tone and expression causes her to be at a loss of words, and so, Ingrid merely shakes her head.

The relief on his face surprises her even more. “Oh, thank the Goddess.”

Ingrid doesn’t reply. What she does do, however, is to gather the gifts back into order. Sylvain attempts to help, but when she sends him a nasty glare and the middle finger, he opts to pick up the largest (and now battered) gift, and waits for her to finish. 

With a huff, she wrestles the tote bag back onto her shoulder, before then giving the used and abused and misused shopping cart the Finger™.

“Shh, don’t,” Sylvain whispers, putting her finger down. “It was all my fault. Never hers, it was _never—_ ”

“Don’t you dare start quoting ‘Adrestian Holiday’.” Ingrid smacks his hand away. “There’ll be no end to it.” 

Sylvain merely laughs in response, relenting. Ingrid then whips out her phone, checking how much longer and— oh. 

“Oh.”

Sylvain hums. “Hm?”

She points to the house right in front of them.

“Ohhhh,” Sylvain turns to face the house. Dedue’s house. “We’re finally here, huh? Man, that took an eternity.”

“I agree,” Ingrid says, before then walking up the small driveway. Sensing an absence of presence, she looks over her shoulder. “Sylvain?”

Sylvain watches her from the line splitting the front lawn and concrete pavement, hands in pockets. 

Then, he says, “...Can I be honest with you?” 

She nods. He smiles. 

“I wish tonight never ended.”

She stares. He matches it with superior intensity.

“...Why,” Ingrid looks down, then back again. “So that you won’t have to tell me everything tomorrow?”

“Ha, you got me there. But, yeah,” Sylvain chuckles, threading one hand through his winter wind tousled hair. The other fiddles with the ribbon of the gift. “Also, just because I really enjoy being with you. Just, us. It’s been too long. You know?”

It has. 

“It has,” she replies.

With that, Sylvain joins her on the front porch. He presses the doorbell first.

“...Ingrid,” he whispers. 

“Hm?”

“I—”

“Finally here, I see,” says Claude, as he opens the door. “Is everything alright?”

“Oh, hey,” Ingrid’s lips break into a smile, warmth spreading through her body. “Sorry. A lot happened, I’ll explain later.”

“No problem.” Claude nods, before then addressing Sylvain with an outstretched hand. “Hey, Sylvain. I hope you’ve been good since Dimitri's party.”

Ingrid looks to him—

“Oh. It’s not him.”

—then back to a frowning Byleth. 

“Who?” Ingrid says. 

“Dimitri.” Byleth sighs through her nose. “I thought that he had perhaps arrived.”

“You sound disappointed,” says Claude. 

“I am. I miss him.”

Claude chuckles. “Hasn’t it only been a few hours since you last saw him?”

Byleth blinks. “Yes?” 

Ingrid almost rolls her eyes at the typically ‘Byleth’ response. It is but one word, but packed with such meaning, conveying all— _Your point being?’_

“Before you get carried away and start waxing lyrical about Dimitri’s qualities, my dear, lovely Byleth,” says Sylvain, as he stretches a hand back to Claude, who had returned it to his side after Byleth’s sudden interruption. “I’ll just answer Claude’s question. I’ve been good. Yourself?”

Byleth shakes her head. “I’m not yours. I’m—” 

“—Highly entertained,” Claude replies, his ambassadorial smile on his lips, hand reaching to accept the offer. “The Sreng exhibit, for example. Fascinating stuff. Ingrid told me that you were personally involved. I was wondering, if you don’t mind…?”

“No problem. Feel free to ask away.” Sylvain chuckles, eyes crinkled. He returns the one hand underneath the gift box. “By the by, I never got to mention this, but your handshake? Best I’ve ever had.”

Ingrid raises a brow. That’s one way to put it.

“Well, don’t you know how to make a man blush," says Claude, pressing a hand to his heart. “I bet women fall at your feet.”

A bitter smile dresses Sylvain’s expression. “Not the one who matters, unfortunately.”

A face flashes by Ingrid’s memory. Kind eyes, beautiful smile, once long locks. Right. He’s still—

“Oh, really? That’s a shame,” Claude says, frowning. “Don’t worry, you’re a good catch. Right, Ingrid?”

“Pardon?” Ingrid blinks, before then looking to Sylvain, reaching to pat his back. “Oh, right. I think—”

Sylvain meets her gaze with a smile, but—

But it’s so empty.

Her hand returns to her side. 

“Rest assured, Sylvain. You are a highly attractive male in most departments, and as they say, there are ‘other fish in the sea,” says Byleth, quoting the idiom with fingers, before then looking to Claude with a small smile. “Right, Claude?”

“Exactly, my friend.” Claude nods with a chuckle, before then rubbing his shivering arms. “Alright, let’s go chat inside. Faerghus winter is not kind to me.”

With that, Byleth nods and turns on her heel, already marching back into the depths of the house. Claude huffs, almost rolling his eyes, before then flashing a smile to Ingrid, “Well, I suppose we should go join her?”

“Right.” Ingrid laughs, before entering the house a few paces after Claude. After a moment, Ingrid hears Sylvain follow from behind, and so she looks over her shoulder. “Sylvain?” 

“Hm?” 

“So, what were you going to say?” Ingrid asks. “Before Claude interrupted?”

Sylvain nods. “Oh, right, yeah.”

He then walks to her side, showing her a small smile, hand rustling her hair. 

Then, he says, “Tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. 

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

It’s always tomorrow.

When there’s still today.

Oh well. It’s night. 

Tomorrow will come soon enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eye spy my little eye an Arrested Development reference. Bloody love that show.
> 
> Anyway, SURPRISE UPDATE! This chapter wasn't going to exist but I changed my mind, because, uh. 
> 
> We are going to need it. 
> 
> Also, fun fact: I had to rewrite like 80% of this because it was originally from Sylvain's perspective.
> 
> And less fun fact: The piss milk carton incident? Yeah, I actually saw that in LA. It was not a pretty sight. 
> 
> Next Update (15th August): The long awaited St. Cichol party begins. 
> 
> :)
> 
> (and to a certain twin, I'm sorry, I had to cut the scene which inspired my rant in your comment section.)
> 
> UPDATE:
> 
> Due to university, I won't be able to make the deadline. Thankfully, 80% is done. I hope to have it done by the 18th.


	8. Hm? Oh, I Said That? Well: I TAKE IT BACK! Tomorrow, Please, Just—

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ON THE LAST EPISODE OF CHAMPAGNE, WINE AND VODKA...

Sylvain Jose Gautier is a diplomat. 

A very, _very_ good one at that.

After all, governments don’t just send no-good nobodies on diplomatic missions to highly volatile militant nations. Sreng, for example. Sreng, who has been shaking fists at the Fatherland, since, well probably since their respective nations were established. Nay, even before, more like. More like since their peoples were still foraging and fighting off Red Wolves with stone-sticks. 

Except, not really, that’s an exaggeration. Sylvain knows his history. Things got wicked tense in the Imperial third century because a Srengese chieftain saw the Princess of Faerghus and thought: 

_‘Oh aye! I shall kidnap this young princess to maketh her mine own bride, despite her engagement to the Gautier scion. There is nay way yond'll has't consequences yond shall lasteth for millennia!’_

Annnnnnnd:

_B_

_O_

_O_

_M_

A millennia or so years’ worth of wars, battles, skirmishes, and bickering. Thank you, random chieftain, for making the Sreng-Gautier border an absolute disaster. All because you wanted to swipe a wife and cock-block his poor ancestor.

Thank you. _Really._

But anyway. His point? 

With how ‘yappy spoiled Chihuahua’ Sreng is, and how the Faerghus right-wing is raring to re-annex their lost former territory, trying to mediate the two is like trying to limbo dance through a 16th-century Adrestian palace maze, guarded by radioactive red lasers and sentinel Rottweilers, just to reach the prize of: ‘A Temporary Truce That Will Last a Few Weeks.’ 

Which, not to brag, but _yes_ , totally to brag, he and his colleagues managed to exceed. By a huge, enormous, _ginormous_ scale, because Sreng and Faerghus exchanged sacred, culturally significant relics —the _Sword of Begalta_ for the _Lance of Ruin_ , for crying out loud!— in an act of tense, but willing, trust. Maybe it’s momentary. Temporary. Transitory. Even so, it _is_ significant. 

And he was a part of making that happen. 

So, the ultimate point of all this rambling is to establish that he, Sylvain Jose Gautier, is really, _really_ good at his job. And his job is a diplomat so, being diplomatic is, duh, kind of required. As it also is to be amicable, friendly, well-mannered, and careful. Plus, he’s charming and handsome to boot, which _is_ relevant! It genuinely helped when he was rubbing shoulders with the First Lady of Sreng. Managed to score a few diplomatic wins there. So, yeah. 

Check. Mate. Sreng.

But _anyway_.

Even with all his achievements under his faux-leather (but still of equal quality to high end, because he's a man of quality) belt, Sylvain is struggling.

"Sorry to interrupt. Ingrid," says Claude, turning to face Ingrid on the small loveseat —okay, no, scratch accurate furniture terminology he's calling it a couch, furniture aficionados be damned— and wipes off a crumb of Bergliez brie cheese from the edge of her lips. 

Which he then licks off his thumb. With a smile. Correction: a _smirk_ _._

"Yum.” Claude’s _smirk_ widens into a McSmirky Smirkful Smirkerlicious _smirk._ “But also, how is that such a prim and proper young lady such as yourself just cannot help but smear your glowing skin with food crumbs, sauce, etc? Boggles the mind. Though, absolutely adorable."

Yeah. He’s struggling. 

Because the Rat Bastard™ is making it _extremely_ difficult for him.

"Oh, whatever." Ingrid rolls her eyes in the way that she always does, but the flush on her cheeks and her lips curled into a smile is not one that she shows often.

Not to _him_ , anyway. Ugh.

Resettling her legs into a crossed lock, Sylvain's fallen gaze accidentally (really!) notices and then proceeds to hyper-fixate on the slight slit of her pencil skirt, leading up to her thighs and— okay, so maybe not so accidentally now. The familiar combination of arousal and guilt taking him back to his early teenage years, Sylvain forcibly wrenches his gaze away from, well, _that,_ to the charcuterie, and picking a random cured meat; Sreng salami.

And as he looks up, the Rat Bastard™ is looking at him.

Well. Not just looking. More like, he _saw_ him.

Double. _Ugh._

"Anyway, Sylvain, as you were saying?" Ingrid offers him a small, encouraging smile in the manner of a teacher trying to encourage the shy, quiet kid to speak up. But not really, because that would imply that she's noticed that he’s been relatively quiet. 

Which she hasn't. Which _was_ the intention. He _did_ practice, after all. 

Still. It’s somewhat disappointing to him, for some reason.

Well. He _knows_ the reason.

But this is already a lengthy internal monologue, and now Ingrid's brows are starting to furrow into crosses, so mind? Shut. Up. 

And mouth? Start. _Mouthing_. 

"Sure, no problem." Sylvain’s lips mould into his practised smile. His very, very natural smile, that feels natural to even _him_. Damn, he _can_ be good at this, so long as guilt, jealousy and shame aren’t stabbing at his innards. Good job! "Well, the theory surrounding Macuil and his mythological relation to 'Mah Acui', the Desert Lord, isn't exactly unfounded conspiracy talk. There's some compelling evidence. Such as—”

A loud gulp interrupts his mojo of mythology facts and Sylvain turns to the source.

"The sword." Byleth nods from beside him, tapping her throat, now cleared of galantines and ballotines. Her wriggly fingers then procure her next victim: Rhodos ham. “Of Begalta.” 

"Pretty much," says Sylvain, dipping his salami in ketchup. Blasphemy. "After all, the Sword of Begalta is said to have been crafted by St. Macuil. But in Sreng, it's a relic of religious significance, tied to their folklore hero, Hridya."

Byleth munches on the ham with a nod. "And it was found in Sreng."

"Exactly.” Sylvain nods with a smile. "But you know. Sreng's interpretation of Mah Acui was that of a violent lizard god. So, the Church isn't exactly going to endorse any implications of connection between the two."

"A violent lizard god, huh?" Claude hums, grabbing a cracker and slathering it with cheese. "Who knows. It might not have been _too_ off.”

Blasphemy is funny and so Sylvain laughs. Begrudgingly. But when _Ingrid_ , who doesn’t find blasphemy funny, laughs, he stops. Because she never laughs at _his_ brand of sacrilege. She just yells at him. Hrm. Now he’s sulking. Well. Not _now,_ he’s been sulking since, like—

"Why is everyone laughing?"

Sylvain pauses. Then, he turns to Byleth. "Because he told a joke?"

Not a very funny one. But _still_. A joke.

Byleth shakes her head. "No, he was serious, and you shouldn't laugh at someone when they're being serious," she says. "That's what Dimitri said."

"He was just joking, Byleth.” Ingrid sighs, and when his eyes meet hers, she wriggles her brows with tight lips. He returns the gesture, and she smiles. His heart flutters, because, well, they’re sharing a moment. 

A moment of exasperation at Byleth’s lack of social awareness, but still. A moment that’s theirs. Which has become increasingly rarer.

Byleth frowns. "But—"

"—I appreciate your support, friend, but as they said, 'twas a mere jape." Claude reaches for the platter, slathering another cracker with cheese. He then flashes her a smile. "Dimitri’s certainly taught you good manners, though."

Sylvain’s brows narrow, because something about that statement alarms his expert social awareness check. Though, he doesn’t know why. Hm. Odd.

Byleth, with her low social awareness check, merely smiles, chest puffed out. "Yes, he has. I've learnt a lot from him. It's wonderful."

Sylvain’s narrowed brows loosen up as he lets out a huff of laughter. Absolutely adorable. So cute, in fact, that almost he feels bad for sharing a moment with Ingrid over her weirdness. Almost. Because, well, Ingrid. She’s a weakness. 

He ruffles her hair. It's choppy and soft. "Aww. You're so sweet."

Byleth tenses under his touch. She glances over to him. Then, with a small nod, she says, “Ok.” 

Yeah. She's still weird. But hey, she’s Dimitri’s weirdo, and Dimitri’s _her_ weirdo. They can be cute and weird together. Like, cute weird aliens in their own cute little alien world. 

Cute.

"...Ha,” Ingrid laughs softly, eyes crinkling as she looks at Byleth. “How cute.”

But that? 

Apologies to a certain love-sick couple, but _that’s_ cuter than anything in the world. 

His hands dropping back to his side, Sylvain steals a glance at Ingrid’s soft smile and soft giggles. Yeah, only a glance. He can’t be caught staring, after all. Ugh. He _wants_ to stare, but—

“Everyone,” Dedue calls, and Sylvain twists his body back to see him lingering by the archway. "The side dishes are ready." 

Despite himself, Sylvain sends another glance Ingrid’s way and smiles. As he expected, her eyes are twinkling, cheeks raised, eyes crinkled, laughter leaving her lungs and—

“Yes!” Ingrid squeals, hopping up from the couch to prance over to the kitchen. “I’ve been waiting for this!”

Yeah. 

The cutest.

* * *

"Mmmmmmmmm!" Ingrid hums, palm pressed against her crumb covered cheeks, filled to the brim with Duscurian dango. The sight reminds Sylvain of the pet hamster he had for a week before it died after overeating his bag of vinegar chips. R.I.P Mistress McChonkster. "Dedue! The contrast of the doughy outside of the dango against the soft, juicy, spicy filling! This is the best incarnation of—"

It takes four minutes and fifteen seconds for Ingrid's gourmet monologue to come to an end, and Sylvain listens to her the whole way through, entirely enraptured, because how could he _not?_ How could he not listen to how her voice cracks and squeals at the climax of her excited preaching? When her eyes sparkle, grabby fingers reaching for another piece?

How could he not, when she directs her gleeful smile his way? When she’s offering him a bite of the food?

"Sure. Don't mind if I do," he says, taking the dango from her hands with his teeth. He then shoves it into his mouth and— woah. "Woah."

‘ _Woah’_ , because, _‘woah’_ it really is the best incarnation of Dedue’s classical Duscurian dango. 

"Isn't it _so_ good?" Ingrid says, and she grabs another, pointing it to— not him. At... _him._ Ugh. "Try some, Claude! You'll love it!"

"Don't mind if I do," says Claude, wrapping a hand around her wrist, bringing her hand closer to his mouth. Instead of taking a bite like he was _supposed to,_ however, the Rat Bastard™ kisses the side of her hand.

"That's—" Ingrid flushes a pretty pink and Sylvain hates that he can’t stop staring, despite the churning sensation in his stomach. Yeah. He’s that pathetic. "—not what I meant."

"Did you mind?"

"I—" Ingrid bites her lip, and Sylvain is still staring. Damn it. Then, she whispers, "Well, no, but..."

“...Then what’s the issue?” Claude whispers back, fingers lacing with hers, and Sylvain finally stops staring, because, yeah.

He’s sick to the stomach. 

"A-anyway," says Ingrid, and Sylvain flinches at the screech of her seat as she presumably turns to address another. Dedue really should stop dumpster diving for furniture. Which he’ll never do. New plan: ditch his own old furniture in front of Dedue’s house. That might work. "Byleth, why don't you have a bite? It's delicious."

"No, thank you,” says Byleth, and Sylvain watches as Ingrid shoves the rejected piece into her own mouth. No hesitation. Cute. "I won't eat until Dimitri arrives."

The sentiment is so sickly sweet that Sylvain’s churning stomach begs him to fetch a garbage bin and retch rainbows, as this sort of lovey-dovey ‘art thou my fate’ bullshit is poisonous to one such as himself: a hopeless loser who has been nursing a crush for a rough decade with no results to show for it. 

Yeah. His appetite is lost — and what a shame, when Dedue’s mouth-wateringly good food is placed right before him. Oh, the shame. 

“I think I’ll join you, actually,” says Sylvain, leaving his fork atop his empty plate. “My stomach’s feeling a bit overwhelmed. Probably the cheese.”

“Mmrh?!” 

At the strange muffled sound, Sylvain looks up from his laced hands and to the source: Ingrid.

Ingrid, whose pouched cheeks are yet again stuffed with the dango. 

Ingrid, who is rushing to swallow down said dango, hand to her flushed neck, the pink travelling up to paint her cheeks. 

Ingrid, who looks really, _really_ cute right now. 

Ugh. 

“You good there?” Claude laughs, hand reaching to pat her shoulder and— nope. He’s massaging it. Caressing it. 

Double. Ugh.

Forget losing his appetite, he’s fucking ill. He doesn’t know from what, whether it’s indigestion, gastroenteritis or— okay, fine, he does know, it’s jealousy. Jealousy, because he’s a green-eyed, vindictive and petty son of a bitch, who doesn’t know how to back down, doesn’t even really _want to_ back down, because he’s been fantasising about doing all these things with Ingrid for a literal decade (maybe more; can we count childhood daydreams of pranking Ingrid?) and here is Claude von _fucking_ Riegan executing all his dreams right in front of him and it— it _hurts,_ damn it. 

Ow. Ow, ow, ow, ow, _ow._

Why did he come?

Ingrid nods, and her throat bobs alongside the motion, food travelling down her esophagus. “I’m— good, but,” she says, coughing, patting her throat, before meeting Sylvain’s weak glance with her frown. “But if neither of you eat, then, well, then, that means that I—"

Sylvain is currently in the middle of a sulking, self-pity sesh. Still. She’s too cute not to poke fun at. So, with a small grin, he begins, “Yeah, that you—” 

“—Then it means that you don’t get to eat, I know, I know. Such a tragedy,” says the interrupting asshole, brushing a —ugh, will he _stop?—_ stray lock away from her forehead, tucking it behind her ear.

Damn it. That too was on his wish-list. Damn it. _Damn it._

“Why don’t you get to eat?” asks Byleth.

Ingrid sighs. “Because it would be impolite.”

“How come?”

“Because, friend,” says Claude, pointing a fork her way, like a doofus. 

He looks stupid. Who points forks at people? One: it’s stupid. Two: it’s impolite. Three: it’s dangerous. He still remembers his etiquette teacher’s words: ‘ _Utensils are meant to be used. Not pointed.’_ Or something.

“There’s a sort of social pressure. There are four of us. Two of us are selecting not to eat, in an effort to be polite. Now. If the other two eat, without a care in the world, they would be…?”

Byleth has her clear ‘a-ha’ moment, resting a fist atop the other. “Rude.” 

Claude clicks his fingers and— well, he’s actually quite good at clicking his fingers, but you know, so what? It’s dramatic and lame.

“Exactly!”

“And—” Byleth raises a finger, “—inconsiderate.” 

Claude laughs, clapping because he’s a fop. “Trés bien! You got it.”

‘Trés bien’, he says, as if it’s his own language. It’s not. It’s _his_. Theirs. Ancient Faerghus. And yeah, you know what else is his? It’s— not. Ugh. 

“Thank you, Claude.” Byleth smiles softly. “You’ve always been so good at explaining.” 

Oh, yeah? Well— hm?

‘Always been?’ 

There’s an implication in there. Which is...they’ve met before? Huh. He didn’t know that. 

“...Ha, well,” says Claude, rubbing his nape, looking to the side. His eyes then return to Byleth’s. “You’re welcome.” 

Huh?

Huh. 

Hm?

Hm.

Hmmmmmmmmm. 

_‘Oh, Sylvain, what is this excessive ‘huh-ing’ and ‘hmm-ing’?'_ his Consciousness asks because he has no conversation partner other than his self-destructive, not really all-that-put-together brain, to consider what he just witnessed. 

But to answer, oh Consciousness: _‘Well. I’m pretty shit at most things, but you know the one thing I’m pretty good at?’_

_‘No.’_

_‘Fair enough. Okay, well, it’s sensing romantic tension.’_

_‘Oh, okay.’_

_‘Yeah.’_

Yeah. He _is_ pretty good at that. But the question is: why is it between Claude and Byleth? 

Byleth, who's with —wait, who was she with again, because she _never_ brings him up, poor guy— oh, _right,_ Dimitri. Whew, nearly forgot. 

And Claude, who is with the most beautiful girl in the world. Which he hates to admit — not the most beautiful girl part, he’ll shout it in front of parliament if need be— but rather, the fact that Claude is such a lucky bastard to be with _her._

Her, who is Ingrid. 

Ingrid, who is—

Huh?

Huh. 

Hm?

Hm.

Hmmmmmmmmm. 

_‘What are you ‘huh-ing’ and ‘hmm-ing’ at this time, Sylvain?’_ asks his Consciousness.

_‘Well, Consciousness, that is a very sensible question. Because, well, you see, Ingrid almost looks as if—'_

“—Still, I’m sure Dimitri wouldn’t mind if you have a bite,” says the psychic asshole, interrupting his inner thought process. He brings a piece of forked dango to Byleth. “In fact, I rather think that he’s the type of guy who’d hate to have his ‘beloved’ starving because of him. No?” 

Byleth nods. “That is true.” 

“So, for good old Ingrid’s sake—” says Claude, and Sylvain watches as Ingrid’s jolts out of her daze. Hm. “—how about you have a bite?” 

“No.”

“Aw, why not?”

“Claude,” Ingrid warns. Hmm. “Stop.”

“Because he would do the same,” says Byleth. 

“Sure,” Claude continues, ignoring Ingrid’s warning. Like a fool. Like the absolute fool he is. Idiot. Dumbass. “But hey, come on. Just a bite?”

“No, Claude.” Byleth shakes her head. “I want to do this. Because I love him and wish to express that feeling. My love.”

Huh. 

Wow. 

That is super duper uber oompa loompa cute. 

Also: he’s really jealous. He wants that. He won’t have it. Maybe ever. But damn. Those words make him _dream._

“...Ah, right,” says Claude. He offers a sorry smile. “Sorry, Byleth.”

“Annnnd?” says Sylvain, because he’s petty. 

Claude blinks, before then flashing the diplomat’s smile. “Right. I was just getting there,” he says, before then turning to Ingrid. “Sorry, Ingrid. I took my joke too far again, didn’t I?” 

Ingrid pauses, looking down at her plate. She then nods. “It’s fine.”

Huh.

“A joke?” says Byleth, with a frown. 

Huh?

“Hm? Oh,” says Claude, smacking on his diplomat smile yet again. “Yeah, a joke. A poor one, but a joke nonetheless. Sorry about that.”

Hm.

Byleth nods. “If you say so.”

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

_‘Sylvain, what are you ‘huh-ing’ and—’_

“If it so helps—” The low, deep timbre jolts Sylvain out of his incoming inner monologue with Consciousness. He turns to the kitchen island, where Dedue is at. “It is often considered rude to not eat the chef’s freshly made meal. Perhaps that is a factor to consider.”

“That is true,” says Byleth, “but I will wait.”

“Also, the fish is ready.”

Byleth flinches. She then mutters, “...Even so, I will wait. I must.”

Ahh, fish. Byleth’s weakness in food form. Still—

“Why’s he so late anyway?” asks Sylvain, with a frown. Last he’d heard, he wasn’t _that_ busy. “Should we call him?” 

“Work,” Byleth lies. It’s 100% a lie. It’s the end of the year, sure, but it’s the _actual_ end of the year. The holidays. No one’s busy then and— okay, his own lie was pretty damn flimsy, now that he thinks about it. How did Ingrid not notice for so long? She continues. “And you don’t need to call him. He’ll be here soon.”

“Alright.” Sylvain shrugs, letting her lie pass because— well.

Well. 

Because there’s some food for thought.

 _'What do you mean, Sylvain?'_ asks his Consciousness.

_'Well, you see—"_

* * *

"Mmmmm!" Ingrid hums around her fork, cupping her filled hamster cheeks with Dedue's signature dish: the Whitefish Sautée. "Oh, Dedue! The delicacy of the meat! How the crispy outside contrasts with the inner succulence! How the—"

This time, it takes five minutes and thirty seconds for Ingrid’s foodie spiel to end, and again, Sylvain listens, endlessly enraptured. Because, again, her voice squeals as she concludes with a reinstatement of her thesis statement. Because, again, her eyes sparkle and twinkle like the stars in the sky, fork going ‘stabbity-stabbity’ into the flesh of the fish.

Because, again, her smile shines _his_ way and his heart squeezes at the sight of her. Though, this time, she doesn’t offer a bite. Still, adorable. 

A-D-O-R-A-B-L-E.

Adorable. 

“—and oh goddess, I went on a tangent there, didn’t I?” Ingrid says, cheeks slightly flushed, eyes glancing between her ravaged plate and her hands in her lap. 

Yeah. Adorable. A-D-O-R-A-B-L-E. 

There’s a slight heaviness to his stomach as her smile leaves him to shine Dedue’s way, but that’s okay. He deserves it. He’s the one who brought out Ingrid’s shining, bright, could-cure-cancer smile, after all. Unlike a certain rat. 

“But only because it’s so delectable. Heavenly. Sublime. Divine.” Ingrid sighs with a smile. Ugh. So. Cute. Damn. It. “Nothing will ever beat this. Ever.” 

“Oh? Nothing?” asks Claude, smugly smugful McSmuggleton smirk on his pretentious face. Ugh. So. Annoying. Damn. It. “Not even…?”

Ingrid shines her illuminating smile _his_ way and Sylvain’s rotten heart clenches, gravity pulling at his nicotine damaged innards, barbells dropping to the depths of his twisting stomach. Yeah. He’s petty as all hell. 

“Not even,” she replies, her smile somehow brighter than before.

“Wow.” Claude shakes his head. “Not _even.”_

She giggles and Sylvain wishes he were deaf. Just that moment— because the realisation that they have known each other long enough to have inside jokes is just, ugh, and in retrospect, obvious. Though, hey, he has inside jokes with a colleague who he’s not that close to. With the waiter at a restaurant he frequents. At the gym with his personal trainer. 

And of course, with Ingrid. Countless. Multiple. An insurmountable amount, even. After all, they’ve been acquainted since infancy. Inside jokes are bound to be born. They’re childhood friends and that means that— well. 

Well, it means that they’re childhood friends. 

Friends. 

Just—

“I am glad for the enthusiasm.” Dedue’s steady deep timbre strikes, pulling him out before Sylvain’s deeper, darker thoughts drag him into a never-ending spiel of ridicule, shame and disappointment. It was _not_ going to be pretty. 

So, thanks, Dedue. 

Dedue, who kinda looks like a guardian spirit, with how he’s overlooking his guests from the kitchen island. A kitchen guardian spirit. Yeah. People need more of that. Thanks, Dedue. 

The Guardian Spirit Chef sighs through his nose, muscular arms crossed against his broad chest —which shamefully reminds Sylvain that he hasn’t been to the gym in _weeks_ — and says, “Though, I am personally dissatisfied with the end result.” 

The statement causes a reactionary cacophony, as Sylvain personally blinks, mumbling a hushed “What?”, hears Ingrid’s sharp gasp of “How?”, Byleth’s empty gaze conveying “Why?” and Claude actually vocalising their shared thoughts: 

“What? How come? Why, it’s so scrumptious.” 

_‘Why, it’s so scrumptious.’_ Pfff. Who actually says that? This guy. A pretentious prick. Goddess, why can’t he just say ‘ _it’s so delicious’_ like a plebeian? 

“I failed to reach its true potential,” Dedue replies. “The ingredients were lacklustre. I had hoped to procure some Duscurian garum.”

“Don’t they sell it at the grocers around here?” Sylvain asks, before biting a mouthful of the dish into his mouth and—woah. “Woah.”

 _‘Woah’,_ because, _‘woah’,_ it really does melt into your mouth.

“Yes,” says Dedue. “But I had hoped to prepare it myself with authentic ingredients. That proved an impossible task.” 

“Duscur, huh?” says Claude. “You know, I’d love to visit. It’s always been an area of fascination for me.”

“If you do, I recommend Ulorbha, for the cuisine and sights,” says Dedue, a smile on his lips. “My family and friends reside there. They would be glad to show you around.” 

Sylvain bristles. Dedue’s never said that to _him._ He’s taking away his ‘Guardian Spirit Chef’ title. ‘Traitor’ is his new title.

Or not. He feels bad. Dedue doesn’t deserve it. Dedue’s just not a petty child like he is.

“Oh, we need to go together!” Ingrid gasps and claps her hands together, turning to face Claude, who grabs her hand, locking their palms.

Though if Ingrid and Claude _do_ end up going up on a lovey-dovey trip to Duscur because of Dedue’s suggestion then his title _will_ be ‘Nemesis’.

“Ulorbha seems so lovely, after all,” Ingrid continues. “I’d love to visit the Northern Tip, also.” 

The Northern Tip. He’d also love to go. Evidently, he’d be alone and —ugh. Pathetic. Get it together, what was the point of his early morning practice if he’s just gonna sulk? Smile, smile. S-m-i-le. Cheeks, rise up! Lips, quirk! Teeth, shine! Or not. That’s a bit much, in all honesty. 

_“Rhut-bhis,”_ says Dedue, the guttural ‘R’ making its reappearance. “That is what we call it.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Ingrid says with a hurried nod. She then pauses, eyes flickering to the ceiling, brows furrowing. “Rhut...bhis? Rhut-bhis. Rhut—” she stops, before sighing. “Oh goddess, I am so sorry. I am butchering the language.”

She’s right. She really is. Still, who cares when she’s so cute while doing so? 

Smile on his lips, Sylvain says, “You know, I’m pretty sure you pronounce it by—” 

_“—Rhut-bhis,”_ says Claude, the words rolling off his tongue, perfectly pronouncing the, well, ‘choking but in a beautiful way’, Guttural R. “Put pressure to the back of your throat.”

He’s right. He _is._ Still, who cares because that prick interrupted what he was going to say in the first place? Ass.

“Rhut... _rhut…”_ Ingrid tries, placing a hand against her throat. She frowns, turning to Claude. “I feel like I’m just absolutely failing.” 

Claude chuckles, taking her hand away from her throat, and back below the table. “Don’t worry. It’s cute.” 

He’s right. It is. She is. 

Still. It’s hard to care when it’s coming from _his_ mouth. 

Yeah. He’s drinking when he gets home. Maybe hard vodka, because he’d really rather forget this feeling of invisibility.

“Your pronunciation is impeccable,” says Dedue. Meanie. “It is impressive.” 

“Why, thank you.” Claude laughs, before taking a sip of his wine glass. “But we have the same sound in Almyran. That’s all.”

Sreng doesn’t. They only roll their Rs, sometimes. Ugh. Why can’t Duscur roll their Rs? Cause if it did, then Sylvain could— smile. S-M-I-L-E. Lips quirked, cheeks raised, posture loose.

S-M-I-L-E.

“Speaking of Almyra,” says Ingrid, “we should probably go there before Duscur, don’t you think?”

Smile dropped. 

Pardon? D-did she just? Say that they’d go to Almyra? _Together?_

Doesn’t that, you know, sort of imply...a serious relationship thing?

_"And you know what?" Dorothea says, "I think she might just marry him."_

Yeah. It does. Which, goddess, he _knew._ She’s serious about this guy. This guy called Claude von Riegan, and sometimes he knows that, but other times, like now, it just _hits_ him like a sucker punch. It _hurts._

He needs vodka. The hard stuff. The good stuff, saved for occasions like these: absolute heartbreak. But for now, he’ll just have to make do with white wine, perfectly suited for the Whitefish Sautée. 

Sigh. 

“Eh.” Claude shrugs. “Almyra can wait, especially considering the border tensions.”

Reverse sigh. 

“I suppose so.” Ingrid nods. “Then, Duscur, next year?”

Reverse-reverse sigh. 

This sucks. They’re planning a lovey-dovey lovers trip right in front of him. You know what doesn’t suck, though? Friendship! He has friends. He’ll just drag Felix with him to, like, Enbarr or whatever. Play poker, drink till they drop and indulge in absolute self-destruction together. Wow-wee, he is a terrible friend and—

“The cuisine is suited to your palate,” says Dedue, his deep voice pulling him back out of the vortex and into reality. 

Alright, fine. He’s still ‘Guardian Spirit Chef Man’ in his books. He’ll always be.

“I think I would enjoy it too,” says Ingrid, smiling softly, and Sylvain stares because how could he not? “But not just for the food, Dedue. The culture. The people. I think that’s what I would enjoy the most.”

Sylvain pauses. His overactive brain settles, considering her words carefully. Then, a real, genuine smile spreads across his lips, heart blooming in warmth, love and above all else, pride. 

Because he’s proud of her. Of how far she’s come. So, _so_ proud of her. 

More than anything, or anybody. 

“...I am glad, then,” says Dedue with a small, telling smile. 

Sylvain’s own large smile spreads even more. Because it is a beautiful moment.

A beautiful moment ruined by the loud grumble of an empty stomach. 

Coming from Byleth. 

Then, equally ruined by a huff of laughter.

Coming from Claude. 

“You good there, friend?” says Claude, not appreciating the sublime beauty of this moment. Jackass. 

“I am starving.” Byleth nods, finally joining their conversation. Took her long enough, but knowing her, it was likely an attempt at energy conservation. “But I will wait.”

Sylvain frowns. “You sure you don’t need to call him?” 

“I am sure,” she replies, sipping at a glass of water. “He will come.” 

“Alright, if you’re sure,” says Sylvain. Still, he pulls out his phone from his pocket, quickly texting:

Dimitri👴🏻   
  
Hey, where are you? Your beloved is starving.    
  


“Though, if we may return to the topic at hand,” Byleth begins, lips forming into a small, soft smile. “I find it truly fascinating.”

Dedue offers, “Duscur?”

She shakes her head. “Ingrid.” 

“Uh,” says the object of fascination, pretty lashes fluttering as she blinks. “Me?” 

“Oh, yes, I quite understand where you’re coming from,” says Claude. “I, too, find her absolutely fascinating. Delightful, too. Lovely. Beautiful. Enchanting—”

Sylvain seconds his opinion. Still, coming from him? Eck. 

“—Ugh, stop.” Ingrid groans.

Sylvain seconds her opinion. Yes, _Claude_ , do stop.

“Isn’t it?” says Byleth. “How formerly deep-rooted bigotry can transform into beautiful cultural appreciation.”

Now, Sylvain does second _her_ opinion, it is beautiful but—

What. 

Did.

She. 

Just.

_Utter._

“The human psyche is truly fascinating,” says Byleth, eyes twinkling. “It never ceases to amaze.” 

Uh. 

Oh. 

“...Well. I agree,” says Claude, eyes seeking Byleth’s. “Though I must confess, I am drawing a blank. This is related to Ingrid, how…?”

Oh. 

Uh. 

Uhhhhhhh.

Byleth pauses. “You don’t know?”

Claude takes a moment before he replies. “Well. I don’t believe so.”

“Would you like to know?”

“Well,” says Claude. “Yes.”

“Very well. Ingrid—” 

He needs to stop her. This is not dinner table talk. At all. So how come his mouth isn’t moving? Oh. Right. Because his very handsome and chiselled jaw is dropped to the fucking ground, due to the fact that Byleth just brought up—

“—once held bigoted opinions on Duscur. She despised anything associated with it. The music, fashion, and most vehemently, the people. Most surprisingly, however, would be—”

—Duscur. And she’s not stopping.

“Byleth—!” He yells. 

“—food.” Byleth smiles, before then looking over to Ingrid. “Which, as we know now, she loves. Right, Ingrid?” 

‘Right, Ingrid?’ she says, as if she didn’t just out her as a _former racist_ in front of her boyfriend and friends at a dinner, for crying out loud— “Byleth!”

“Hm?” She hums. “Yes?”

“Look, I know you suck at reading the room but for once, could you—”

“—Was there any falsity in my words?” she says, and it’s terrible because Sylvain knows it’s genuine and innocent. Ugh. 

“That’s not the point—” 

“—No.”

Sylvain freezes. 

He knows that voice. 

That tremble. That weakness. 

He _hates_ that voice.

“You didn’t say anything false,” says Ingrid, in that tone of voice that he detests. “It’s true. All of it.” 

“I see,” says Claude, in a tone so nonchalant that he almost detests it more than Ingrid’s. Almost. It’s close, oh boy is it close, because— “How lovely it is to learn new things about you.”

Fucker.

“...I,” Ingrid gulps, voice _still_ in that tone, and he wants to grab her and hug her and tell her _‘no’_ and— “Yes.” 

“Isn’t it?” says Byleth in a tone so innocent and ignorant that he almost, _almost_ detests it more than Ingrid’s. Because, _damn it,_ Byleth— “I think that’s the beauty of relationships. Learning about each other. Whether it be beautiful or ugly, it is human and real. Then, learning how to overcome it. That’s what Dimitri taught me.”

Damn it, Byleth. 

Claude sips his glass. “Nice.”

“Yes.” Byleth smiles. “It is very nice.”

Silence.

And Sylvain wants to shatter it by screaming at the lot of them —particularly Byleth, not at all Ingrid and yeah, at Claude too— because damn it, Ingrid is hurt, due to the fact that Byleth Eisner, soon to be Blaiddyd, is even denser than her husband-to-be. How is that even possible? Well, _fuck_ , give him some time to process _that_ thought because, well, a lot just fucking happened in the span of one minute and—

And.

He didn’t know. 

About Ingrid and Duscur. 

Huh?

Huh.

Hm?

Hm.

Hmmmmm—

_Ring, ring, ring._

The doorbell breaks the tense, gravity-assisted silence, but what cuts it is Byleth’s enthusiastic, _‘Dimitri!’_ as her chair screeches from the way she hops out of it. 

“He’s finally—”

“—I’ll go get it.” Ingrid shoots up from her own seat. Back turned, expression covered, she marches towards the hallway. 

“I’ll go too,” says Byleth, again, completely failing to read the fucking room. With a hum, she follows after Ingrid, so very happy and giddy to see her _beloved._

How lovely. How sweet. How disgusting. 

Then, silence.

And Sylvain still wants to scream. Probably from the stress of it all. But he’s technically an adult, so he _should_ act like one. 

Alright. 

Time to be the defence for the defence attorney.

“Look,” Sylvain begins, and a sigh leaks out despite his efforts to restrain it. “Ingrid has her reasons.”

“For…” Claude hums, eyes glancing upwards. “Racism?”

Alright. Fair.

“That was worded poorly. What I meant was—” Another sigh escapes him. Goddess, he’s failing horribly. “It’s complicated. Really, really complicated.”

Claude nods. “Oh, I’m sure.”

The tone is so nonchalant that even Sylvain, of all people, fails to detect any note of sarcasm. It’s so...detached. Ugh.

Yeah, this whole ‘racism’ thing most definitely struck a chord with good old Claude here. And honestly? Sylvain doesn’t blame him. He knows how Almyrans are viewed in Fódlan. After all, even GMU —which was essentially founded _because_ of Almyra, damn it—had bigots spitting hate speech. So, yeah. This is probably a big red flag for him. 

This probably could cause them to break-up. 

Which, hurrah, right? Ingrid would be single again. He could slide in and slide her off her feet, guilt-free, scot-free. But you know, not really, because there are a few things in the world that he detests: 

  1. A heartbroken Ingrid. 
  2. A sad Ingrid. 
  3. A crying Ingrid. Oh goddess. A _crying_ Ingrid. He’s already seen that today. No repeats, thank you. His poor heart can’t handle it. Oh no. What if she’s crying _right now?_ Holy shit. She totally could be. Oh goddess, he needs to—



“...What Byleth said is true,” Dedue begins, and Sylvain’s heart jumps from his chest to his lungs. Dedue won’t actually be a _traitor_ , right? “Ingrid has changed.”

Okay. Whew. _Whew._

Good. Dedue is handling it. Good. He’s _way_ more qualified.

Thank the Goddess. Thanks, kind Guardian Kitchen Spirit. 

Thanks be to _Dedue._

“And as Sylvain said, it is complicated. Her trauma twisted into hatred, and I understand the sentiment. I, too, have felt such. It is an extremely powerful and compelling urge,” says Dedue. “Ingrid, however, was able to pull away from that. To transform hate into love, because she is a woman of such strong character.”

Sylvain’s eyes glance from Dedue to Claude, who is watching, listening and more importantly, _considering_. Good. Whew. Good. 

“Above all else, however,” Dedue continues, “is that I consider her one of my truest, closest friends. I believe that she reciprocates the sentiment.”

Sylvain also believes she does. What he knows, however, is that he also very much does. Dedue. His dude-bro. 

“...I see,” says Claude, after a moment of observable consideration. “I understand. Thank you.”

Whew. 

“There is no need for thanks,” says Dedue. “All I ask is for an open mind.”

“...Of course,” says Claude. He smiles. “One hundred per cent.”

Yes!

Good job, Guardian Spirit Chef Dedue! 

Speaking of which, damn, he is _good_ at this. He should do this for a job —oh, he kind of does, doesn't he? Deescalating tense situations and all that. Thank the goddess for having a professional on the scene and —hold on. Sylvain does that too. He’s a diplomat. A self-proclaimed very, very good one at that. Damn. Whoops. 

“Oh, I am so sorry for my tardiness, everyone.”

Sylvain looks up to find Dimitri, sweaty and rushed, exiting the hallway, Byleth on his arm. 

“Yeah,” Sylvain says. “So where _were_ you?”

“Work, I’m afraid.” 

“Oh, _really?”_

Dimitri blinks at Sylvain’s scathing words. Then, expression serious, he replies, “Yes.”

Huh. That’s weird. He’s definitely lying. But he doesn’t seem like he is. Alright, that’s a bit terrifying, considering this is Dimitri but—

“Where’s Ingrid?”

“I saw her go into the restroom,” says Byleth, so innocently. As if she weren’t the cause. “Perhaps she is excre—”

Sylvain groans, rolling his eyes, before yelling, “Oh, shut _up_ , Byleth!”

Byleth nods. 

“Sylvain,” Dimitri scoffs, not taking kindly to having his bride-to-be yelled at. Even though she deserves it. “What is the—”

“—I’ll go check on her.” A screech of the chair. Goddess, Dedue really deserves better ones. Claude then flashes a smile to Dimitri and Byleth as he passes by them. “Give us a minute, alright?”

“...Very well,” Dimitri mutters, watching as Claude saunters down the hallway. He then turns back to face Sylvain. “Did something happen?”

“Well,” Sylvain sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “What do you think?”

Dimitri doesn’t reply. Well, maybe he did, but Sylvain honestly doesn’t care to listen any further. 

All he cares about now is Ingrid. 

All he cares about is that she’s okay. 

Nothing else matters. Not his selfish desires. Not him. Not anything, or anybody. 

Just her. 

Her. 

Please. 

* * *

“Mm,” Ingrid hums around the dessert spoon in her mouth, lips quirked upwards in a small smile. “This sorbet is really nice, Dedue. Good crunch, balanced with a divine melt. It reminds me of—"

Ingrid’s epicurean soliloquy ends in record speed: one minute and thirty seconds. Probably because it’s store-bought sorbet and not Dedue’s home cooking. Sweets are his weakness, apparently.

This final time, Sylvain doesn’t quite pay much attention. Probably because of the fact that the two of them returned hand-in-hand, their relationship renewed and revitalised, seemingly stronger than bloody _ever._ Which, you know, the empathetic masochist in him wished for. Still, there’s the sadist in him, who hoped for their relationship to, you know. Suffer just a teensy _weensy_ bit. Or full-on combustion. Either option would have been a-okay. 

Instead, Nah. It just strengthened it, as evidenced by Claude’s hand on her back and Ingrid’s no longer mascaraed lashes flittering and fluttering at _him_ every damn microsecond. 

Great. Just, great. 

G-R-E-A–

“—To think I’d be eating sorbet today,” says Claude, spoon clanging against his dessert dish. “Takes me back to childhood.”

-T.

Great, because Claude seems equally determined to interrupt even his spelling spree soliloquy. Ass. 

“I heard that sorbet originates in Almyra. Is that— oh, beloved,” Dimitri laughs, as Byleth grabs his spoon, humming in happiness as she steals his sorbet. Relenting, Dimitri passes her his bowl. “Very well. Eat mine.”

“Mm!” Byleth hums, smiling around the spoon. 

“True.” Claude nods and Sylvain watches as Claude watches _Ingrid’s_ spoon and— nope. Don’t you dare. Don’t you— “Thanks in advance.” 

How. Dare. He. 

That was, like, number three on his wish-list! Damn it! _Fuck!_

“Claude!” Ingrid gasps, smacking him on the shoulder. Good. Ingrid would never let anyone take her food. Except maybe him. Maybe. Possibly. If they ever, ‘ _ever’,_ you know. “How dare you!”

Exactly, Ingrid. How dare he. 

“Says the one who ate most of my fish,” Claude retorts. “How dare _you_ , no?” 

“I—” Ingrid pauses with a gulp. “Fine. Have another bite.”

What?

“Thank you, madam,” says Claude, before grasping her wrist, making her spoon-feed him. Which Ingrid allows. With a smile. 

So obviously being born blind and deaf certainly has its obvious demerits, but honestly? Sylvain is currently being presented with very, very good ‘for’ arguments worthy of consideration. His arguments for ‘for’ being:

  1. He doesn’t have to see Ingrid with Claude. 
  2. He doesn’t have to hear Ingrid with Claude.



Yeah. That’d be nice. Really nice. 

“Sylvain,” says a female voice, and it almost makes Sylvain perk up, but then his ears recognise the source. It’s just Byleth, who is offering her spoonful of sorbet. She smiles. “Have a bite of mine.”

 _‘Have a bite of mine’,_ she says, as if it wasn’t Dimitri’s. But it’s the thought that counts, as they say, and the thought is kind of melting his heart. 

Byleth is socially inept. This is an annoying truth about her. But she is kind. After all, why else would Dimitri fall for her? Kindness loves kindness. 

“Don’t mind if I do, then,” says Sylvain, nodding before then taking her spoon into his mouth. Yum. The lemon is actually quite nice. 

Sylvain then leans back into his chair, at the back head of the table —because _‘I want to sit next to Dimitri’_ said Byleth, and Byleth gets what Byleth wants, whatever, sure— and meets eyes with Dedue. 

“How is it?” asks Dedue. It’s a simple question. An innocent one. 

But Sylvain knows Morse code, social signals and always has a good read on the room, so he manages to interpret the true meaning: _‘How are you?”_

So, he replies, “Could be better.” 

“Sylvain.” Ingrid frowns, as he thought she would. “That’s rude.” 

“It’s fine. I appreciate honesty,” says Dedue. Ironically. Because they’re in double-speak mode. Dedue and irony is a funny, funny mix. “In fact, I had considered making the Almyran kind, but I was unsure.”

Claude pauses, before saying, “What, faloodeh?” 

Dedue nods. “Indeed.”

“Ahh, you should have. Now _that_ is good,” says Claude, a smile on his lips. The most genuine smile Sylvain’s ever personally seen on him. Huh. “That’s my childhood. Though, it might be a bit...different, for people around these parts.”

“Oh,” says Byleth, joining in their conversation. “I remember eating that in Almyra. It was quite delicious.”

“Well,” Claude smiles. “It is.” 

Byleth nods, spoon back in her mouth. “Mm.”

“Almyra seems a lovely country,” says Dimitri. “I would truly love to visit.”

Spoon popped out of her cheeks, Byleth smiles as she turns to look to Dimitri. “It really is. I’d love to return.”

“How about you two visit for your honeymoon, then?” says Ingrid. “You haven’t decided yet, after all.” 

Honeymoons. How nice. How romantic. 

How impossible. 

Ugh. 

Sylvain refills his glass of wine because, _ugh._

“Oh, I’d recommend it.” Claude refills his own glass after Sylvain places it back onto the table. He then sighs around the rim of his filled glass. “Were it not for the fact that Almyra and Leicester seem ready to wage war. Other than that? Lovely honeymoon escape. You really should go south for the beaches.”

“Mm,” Dimitri hums, lips formed in a stern line. “Regarding that, do you believe that the relations between Almyra and Leicester —or rather, more broadly, Fódlan— will ever improve?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.” Claude shrugs. “Almyra and Fódlan do share a bit of a past, after all. Considering Almyra’s pride and Fódlan prejudice, it seems unlikely. But more surprising things have happened.”

Yeah, like the fact that Ingrid chose to date a pretentious fop instead of her usual nice guys who like art and books. That’s a shocker. 

Oh, he’s so petty. It’s the wine. He can’t think right. He also kinda wants a nap. 

Whatever. Who cares. Who knows. 

“Well, I really hope it does.” Ingrid sighs, her hand reaching for Claude’s. “Otherwise, I’ll never get to see your homeland. Or meet the people you love.”

He should just fall asleep on his chair right now. He could do it. He _literally_ has the potential to pull off such a feat. He just needs to close his eyes and—

“I hope so too, Ingrid,” says Byleth. “After all, I’m sure that his Majesty would adore you.”

Sylvain opens his eyes.

Huh?

Huh— and oh, right. He’s tipsy and tired. Probably said ‘tapestry’ or something, cause, well, Almyra. Which is gorgeous. Maybe he should finally buy that carpet he’s been eyeing, at the markets. Then again, he’s burnt through his wallet this month faster than he has than last year combined, so maybe he should refrain from—

“His…” Ingrid starts, “Majesty?”

Huh. 

So, he didn’t mishear. Byleth literally said ‘His Majesty’, as in the King of Almyra. The...King of Almyra. 

Hm.

“Yes?” Byleth’s head knocks to the side, seemingly puzzled. “Did I say something wrong?” 

Sylvain lets out a heavy sigh, dragging a hand down his face. Ugh. She really did, didn’t she?

“So, look.” Sylvain pokes her shoulder, before he whispers, “Just because Claude is Almyran...well, it doesn’t mean that he knows every Almyran. Much less the king. Much less beloved by the king. You get me?” 

Byleth frowns. “But he does know the king.”

Hm?

Ingrid mutters, brows furrowed, “Pardon?” 

Hmmmmmmm?

“Because of work,” Claude says, way too quickly, and Sylvain goes _hmmmmm,_ yet again. “Being a Leicester diplomat specialising in Almyra, well, I meet all sorts. Even royalty.”

That’s true enough. Sylvain himself has met enough royals to count on a hand. Including _that_ Srengese princess, who he wished he _hadn’t_ met, even if it meant he no longer had bragging rights that he could count the royals he’d met on one hand. That woman was...intense. 

Still. 

Suspicious. 

“I see,” says Byleth, nodding. 

“Yup.” Claude nods back, before then turning to Dimitri. “Oh, by the way, Dimitri, what—”

“—though, I find it strange that you position your career reasons above your personal ones.”

Huh.

That’s an interesting thing to say. 

Huh?

But why would Byleth say that?

Hm.

Then again, she _is_ Byleth. 

Hm?

Then again, why does Claude look like a child who was caught stealing cookies from the cookie jar? 

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

“What do you mean?” asks Ingrid, brows narrowed, eyes flickering between Claude and Byleth. 

Byleth pauses. “You don’t know?” 

“Know what?”

“That Claude is—”

—is absolutely panicked, from what Sylvain can tell, what with his teeth clenched, legs shooting up from his screeching seat (Dedue, just take his money) and his hiss of, “Byleth—!” 

Wow, fetch him some popcorn, this is good—

“—a prince of Almyra.”

—enter...tain...ment. 

Huh?

Huh.

Uh. 

Uhhhhhh.

What?

What.

W-H-A–

“The thirteenth in line, if I recall correctly.” 

-T. 

“I am surprised you didn’t tell her, Claude,” says Byleth, so casually. As if it started raining when the weather forecast predicted a sunny summer day. “Why didn’t you?”

“...Well.” Claude’s lips meet the rim of his glass. He takes a sip. “Let’s just say that it’s complicated.”

Sylvain Jose Gautier has three options. 

  1. Mediate.
  2. Grab popcorn. 
  3. Fan the flames.



Ever true to himself, he predictably chooses:

“Well,” he begins. “Why did _Byleth_ know?”

Option 3. Obviously! Option 1 is a joke, and Option 2 is tempting, but this the perfect opportunity. For what? To humiliate—

“Because he took me to Almyra. I met his family. Therefore, I also met the King.” 

—okay, what?

What?

W-H-A-

“Beloved,” Dimitri, of all people, _Dimitri,_ begins, “Why did you...meet his family?”

-T. 

“—We were friends,” Claude answers. But again, it is _way_ too quick and has Sylvain _‘hmm-ing’_ and _‘huh-ing’._ “At Garreg Mach. Very good friends.”

“Oh. I see.” Dimitri nods. 

Byleth’s head knocks to the side. “But _were_ we still friends then?”

Sylvain pauses.

What.

W-H-A-

“...Does that mean what I think it does?” Ingrid whispers, at a low, shivery low, scary and oh goddess, Ingrid is _pissed._

-T. 

“I do not know what you think it means,” says Byleth, not at all noticing the ice-cold subzero temperature of this zoom, that even makes him, _him,_ shiver. “But I believe that at the time, Claude and I were still in a sexual relationship. Therefore, my question of: ‘were we still friends then?’ For you see, that was the cause of our souring relations.” 

Byleth Eisner, soon to be Blaiddyd, is an enigma. 

She is strange. She is a mystery. She is unsolvable. 

She has also apparently fucked Claude von Riegan. 

“You—” Sylvain whispers, fingers pointing, jaw dropped, “—and _him?”_

“Indeed.” Byleth nods, matter of factly. She then turns to Claude. “Isn’t that correct?”

Sylvain stares. Hard. He digs holes. He digs deep. Because, apparently, _Claude_ and _Byleth—_

“...Well,” Claude sips at his glass. As he places the cup back onto the table, he offers a simple smile. “Yes. That would be correct, wouldn't it?”

Byleth nods. “Yes, it would.”

—fucked. 

Silence. 

And Sylvain wants to scream for the third time this night— he has _too many questions._ What? Apparently, Byleth and Claude _fucked._ And oh, he’s also an Almyran prince. Oh goddess. He’s a prince? Oh goddess. Anyway— what? Seiros, woman! Way to drop a bombshell readier than the Almyran military forces, or, or, Sreng for that matter, and they’re just pretty much always ready to go apeshit and—

And. 

She didn’t know. 

Ingrid didn’t know. 

About Claude and his royal connections. 

About Claude and Byleth. 

Huh. 

Huh?

Hm.

Hm.

Hmmmmm—

_Ring, ring, ring._

“I’ll go get that if you don’t mind,” says Claude and before anyone can react, he is gone. 

Then, silence.

And Sylvain still needs to scream. Though, at the same time, he’s shell shocked from all the bombshell truths Byleth Eisner has been dropping this lovely St. Cichol Day. Yeah. It’s St. Cichol Day. Where children pray for their literacy rates to rise and eat cookies and fried, baked, sauteéd, whatever, fish. 

“Beloved,” Dimitri whispers, but everyone can hear from how fucking silent it is. “How did I not know this?”

“Which part?”

“The—” Dimitri sputters, tongue visibly flailing for words. “The...relationship.” 

“Should I have informed you?” Byleth blinks. “After all, you told me that my previous—”

“—And I meant it. I really did, but,” Dimitri says, still whispering. He then sighs. “But I had not realised that your...previous encounter was with someone we knew.”

“You would wish to know if it is a mutual acquaintance then?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“—Claude was my first," says Byleth. "Edelgard was my second. You, my third, and my last."

Claude was her _what now—_

Edelgard. 

Edelgard?

“...Edelgard?” Dimitri whispers.

Huh. That sounds familiar.

That’s a name. A name that is spelled:

E-D-E-L-G-A-R-D. 

Byleth nods. “Yes. She was the one woman that I’d ever been with, as I had once mentioned.” 

Huh. That sounds familiar. 

Oh. 

Maybe because it’s the name of the _fucking_ Queen of Adrestia—

“You _fucked_ the _fucking_ Queen?” Sylvain gawks. “The Queen? The—"

“—Yes.”

Dimitri shoots up from his seat, yelling, “Edelgard?!”

“—Yes.”

“You _fucked_ her? You _fucked_ the Queen?”

“Sylvain!" Dimitri yells. "Stop calling it that!” 

"How else am I supposed to say it?!" 

“That would depend on your definition,” says Byleth, calm and cool as ever. “It was not coitus, as that is biologically impossible. With the socio-cultural definition, as used by sexual minorities, then yes, I did in fact—"

Dimitri shivers. Visibly shivers. “Oh gods, beloved, I did not need to know this!”

Byleth frowns. “But you said—”

Sylvain yells, “Byleth, you fucked the Queen! The _Queen!”_

“She was still a princess, then.”

“Oh, great! G-R-E-A-T. Thank you! Thank you so much! For clarifying _that_ of all things!” 

She nods. “You are welcome, Sylvain.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake! Dimitri, just let me punch—”

“—Sorry to intrude—”

“—her!”

“Never!”

“—but we have a guest.” 

What?

Sylvain turns to the source. 

Claude. 

With a pair of pretty legs. 

In a white dress.

And—

“M-Mercedes,” Dedue stutters out, tone betraying his usual calming timbre. 

“Hello, Dedue. I texted, but I don’t think it reached you,” says Mercedes, a small smile on her plump lips as her eyes scan over the room. “I’m so sorry, I must be intruding, but—”

Sylvain stares.

At Mercedes. At Claude. At Byleth, then Dimitri. 

Then, finally, at Ingrid. 

_‘What’s wrong, Sylvain?’_ asks his Consciousness.

_‘Well, Consciousness. You see, the thing is...well, this is hard to say, but—’_

_‘Yes?’_

_‘I’ve made a huge mistake.’_

_‘That’s unfortunate.’_

_‘Yeah.’_

"I brought cookies?" chirps Mercedes. 

Yeah. 

It really fucking is. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys😃
> 
> Sorry for the late update. Uni is slaying me😖
> 
> Also, look at this super duper cute art by Andi!
> 
> [ART!!](https://twitter.com/anditiucs/status/1292830632255651845?s=20)  
> Additionally, I have made a Twitter. Fic updates will be announced there as well me screaming haha. 
> 
> [My twitter!](https://twitter.com/EmiWakaWaka)
> 
> Oh! And lastly:
> 
> [](https://imgflip.com/i/4bpyul)  
> 
> 
> [](https://imgflip.com/memegenerator)  
> 
> 
> Don’t kill me.
> 
> Next Chapter: September 5th.


	9. She’ll Do It. She’ll Take it. She’ll Endure it. For the Innocents.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ON THE LAST EPISODE OF CHAMPAGNE, WINE AND VODKA...
> 
> [](https://imgflip.com/i/4d98tn)  
> 
> 
> [](https://imgflip.com/memegenerator)  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEDUE!!!
> 
> Trigger Warning: Body image issues.

Ingrid Brandl Galatea is a defence attorney. 

Therefore, she is someone who makes it a career to not only give the benefit of the doubt, to not only believe in someone’s innocence but to also defend another against the damning verdict of guilt until they are freed of the heavy shackle burden that is the accusation of criminal sin. 

Or, as Judith creatively puts it, ‘prevent major legal and moral fuck-ups’. 

This, she has done, in her relatively short time span as a practising lawyer —because goddess, it takes _ages_ to become one— quite a few times, and quite effectively. 

Quite.

In fact, she is quite good at it all. At the whole process, if you will. Giving the benefit, believing in her client, defending them through thick and thin, with gritted teeth against iron bars, to the bitter, _bitter_ end. 

To the _end._

Oh, but what else? Oh, yes. Another small detail: 

Ingrid Brandl Galatea has never lost a trial.

Ever. 

This is no easy feat, by the by. After all, consider what Derdriu is; a corporate city run by bourgeoisie whose pockets are filled with laundered cash, which they use to bribe city officials. Which, in turn, makes her job, very, _very_ difficult. 

Even so, Ingrid is a victorious gladiator in a cutthroat arena. She’s won every case and will continue to do so, thank you very much. Yes. Every case. Even her current case with Balthus Albrecht.

Indeed, even _his_ case, even if he is testing her on all fronts; the benefit, the belief, the defence. Because that reckless mammoth of a man makes her think that maybe she should’ve become a prosecutor after all because he’s just _so—_ calm. 

Calm down, Ingrid Galatea, defence attorney at Daphnel & Co.

Not Ingrid Galatea, prosecutor at some other random office, as she had originally planned, way back when. 

Way back when she had settled on becoming a prosecutor. 

Way back when she still had not considered the possibility that she could send an innocent man to jail.

Way back when the incident of five years prior had still not occurred.

But it is the present, and now she is a defence attorney. And she doesn’t regret the choice. It was a good one, made out of both moral and monetary consideration— and do not shame her; she needs the money. 

But. 

“Mmm.” Claude hums, his lips shaped around a choc-chip cookie. He swallows down the experimental bite before flashing his suspiciously squeaky clean smile Mercedes’ way. “This isn’t too sweet. Which is a compliment, I swear. I’m actually not a big fan of—”

But it appears that the mood of the room, as dictated by the guiltiest of them all, is to ignore the revelations, her humiliation, his would-be condemnation, for the sake of the party— and how _dare_ he. 

“Oh, I’m glad, then. That was intentional, actually, because I know some people here don’t like—”

How _dare_ he act as if he is innocent. 

“Oh? You’re a psychologist? Interesting. What made you choose it as a career?” 

How _dare_ he act as if he hadn’t lied to her. 

“—so, that’s why. Actually, I was going to become a Faith medical practitioner. But, then, well. I changed my mind.”

How _dare_ he act as if he’s doing it for the sake of the others. For the innocents. For Dedue, for Mercedes, for Dimitri, for _her._

Her.

Which _her?_

“Oh? You can use magic, then?”

And how _dare_ he act as if he’s not doing it for _himself._

“Yes. Though, only Faith.”

It’s sickening. So sickening, in fact, that she has no defence for it. 

“...How rare. I haven’t met many mages here.”

For his behaviour. For _him._

“They are a dying breed in Fódlan.”

So sickening that she almost wishes that she _was_ a prosecutor, despite the moral chill the possibilities send down her spine, because at least then it would be so easy, so natural, so ingrained in her, to persecute him in public, to patronize him as he did her, and to declare his guilt to the world without a care for social sensibilities.

“...I am not quite sure if that is the appropriate choice of words, beloved.”

But alas, she is Ingrid Brandl Galatea, defence attorney at Daphnel & Co., and not a prosecutor at some random office.

“No, it’s alright. It’s quite true, in fact. I’m happy I chose psychology, though. I think it suits me well.”

Or, simply, Ingrid.

And Ingrid _does_ care for societal sensibilities. 

So, she’ll grit her teeth and bear it. She’ll smile when the discussion turns to her. She’ll laugh when somebody makes a joke. 

Which is, often, _him._ Still, she’ll do it. 

For the innocents. For Dimitri, for Mercedes, for Dedue, for—

“Well,” Ingrid begins and she smiles. She smiles. “It suits you, Mercedes. Being a psychologist, I mean.”

Because they don’t deserve any of this.

“Thank you, Ingrid,” says Mercedes with a pretty smile. So pretty, in fact, that Ingrid looks down to her lap with bitten lips. Even after all these years, she’s still ever so pretty. How nice. “I think that your career suits you as well. You’ve always been such a passionate young woman, after all.”

‘A passionate young woman.’ 

This is a compliment. A kind one. A sincere one, with no malice. There is not even a hint of venom or ridicule leaking from her tongue. After all, Mercedes is someone who only ever speaks sincerity.

Yet, even so, she still feels so small. As if she was twenty again, and Mercedes, twenty-four. But they aren’t; she is twenty-eight years old and Mercedes is thirty-two. 

They are on equal footing now. 

Yet. 

Yet why is it that even after all this time, she still feels like her twenty-year-old self, who hated that she was such a child, hated that she was so insecure, hated that she was _so jealous—_

“Well, that’s true.” 

Ingrid looks up from her lap with widened eyes, because the second quietest person after her just spoke. 

The second quietest person, who is usually the loudest person. 

Sylvain. 

“Ingrid’s really, _really_ good at her job. Like, woah. Please represent _me_ if I ever get in real trouble,” Sylvain says, laughing freely, posture relaxed— but she catches his glimpse. A glimpse he sends her way, one that meets her stare. It tells her everything. “There was this case she told me about, and damn, Derdriu is _corrupt—_ ”

Sylvain is a master orator. He knows how to take control of a conversation, directing it to whatever subject he fancies, and ensuring that he enraptures those listening with whatever choice he makes in his topical whims. 

“Oh gods! When I was in Sreng, there was this type of noodle dish. It tasted like sand and—”

Which, at current, means away from her. So that the attention is not on her. So that she does need to speak. So that she does not have to force a fake laugh, smile or compliment. 

“St. Cichol day is nice, sure, but I’m more of a St. Macuil day guy, you know? It’s such a reprieve in the middle of the year, and boy, does Faerghus need more holidays—” 

Because he knows. 

“Look, I get it. Leicester has nice beaches, but you cannot dismiss Faerghus until you visit the Rhodos Coast. Go during St. Cethleann day celebrations. The fireworks then are just—”

He knows how upset she is. How humiliated she is. How hurt she is. 

He knows. He always does. 

Because he cares. 

About her.

Always.

“And— _damn it,_ ” Sylvain swears under his breath, hands rushing to grab —her eyes rush to the source— Mercedes’ wrist. Or rather, her wine glass. Oh. “And you nearly dropped your glass again. Look, it’s cute how clumsy you can be, but please, be careful. What if you actually got hurt this time?” 

Her, too, she supposes. 

Even after all this time. 

“Oh, _no._ I’m so sorry. I’m just so clumsy and—”

“—Hey, don’t worry about it,” says Sylvain as he slowly loosens his grasp around Mercedes’ wrist. He then smiles, and it’s— well. It’s his real one. “Like I said, it’s cute.”

Correction: 'even after all this time' was a misusage of the phrase. 

Because he’ll always care about her, won’t he? 

“Now then—” 

Ingrid winces, as the chair legs screech and creak, and ugh, her ears. Such a horrible sound and— what? What is wrong with her? Why is she so obsessive about this? It’s ridiculous. This, of all things, to be on her mind. She’s not twenty anymore. 

She’s twenty-eight. 

And she’s with _him._

“—Shall we go open our presents, then?” says Claude, standing with his hands in his pant pockets.

Him. Oh, how she nearly forgot. She’s with _him._ That lying, rat—

“Yes.” 

Another chair screech. Ugh. Dedue, she relates, but please. Get new chairs.

“Let’s go, Dimitri,” says Byleth, tugging on his wrist, eyes sparkling like stars in the night sky. She whispers, “You will love my gift.”

"I—" Dimitri pauses, words falling off his tongue. He stands, and Ingrid almost rolls her eyes when she sees how his tensed expression loosens as Byleth flashes her blinding smile, starry sky eyes staring into his one eye.

"Yes?"

“...Of course,” says Dimitri, lips now curled in a smile, hand grasping hers. “I’d adore any gift of yours.”

The blinding smile falls from Byleth's lips, and it contorts into a frown. “No, you wouldn’t.”

Dimitri gives a light huff of laughter. “You seem so sure.”

“You hated it when I gave you a—”

“—Let’s not mention this in front of good company.”

Byleth nods. “Okay.”

Ingrid will admit. She is curious. But strangely, she is equal parts apathetic. It's peculiar, disorientating feeling, and— whatever. Who cares. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” says Mercedes, and damn it. Dedue. Please. Get. Nice. Chairs. Her. _Ears._ “I...didn’t bring any. Which is so very impolite, I know, but I do have a—”

“—Hey.”

Standing (with caution), Ingrid doesn’t look at the source of the voice. Instead, she gathers her empty plates, passing it to Dedue, who accepts it with a nod. She feels his gaze on her, but she doesn't care to confirm his look of concern. "Thanks," she says, before walking away from the kitchen counter. Dedue's gaze follows her (for the innocents, Ingrid, for them) but it soon passes. 

“...Don’t worry,” she hears him whisper —so gently— as she passes by. “I know. You have your reasons.”

“...Thank you,” Mercedes whispers back. “You’re so kind.”

He is.

“I will wash the dishes,” says Dedue, and she hears the clatter of plates. She looks over her shoulder, finding Dedue gathering the plates, glasses and bowls. “Then, I will join you.”

“I’ll help out,” says Claude, walking over to the sink. He rolls his sleeves as he smiles Dedue’s way. “Contrary to most expectations, I am a master at washing the dishes.”

He isn't. He isn't at all. He is terrible at washing the dishes. He always drops the plates. And the first time he washed the plates at her apartment, he only used cold water. Cold. Water. It made sense, considering his wealthy background — oh and yes, he's a _prince,_ isn't he?

A prince, of all things. How unbelievable. How cliché. 

And a prince, who— with— ugh. How disgusting. How putrid. 

She’d have preferred a spy, just like how Felix said. 

Felix. 

Ugh. Her mental energy and processing ability can’t handle where _that_ thought was leading to. 

“Me too,” Mercedes says, rolling the sleeves up her dainty arms. Dainty, and so spotless. No scars, no burns, no blemishes. Pretty. “I wouldn’t call myself a master, but I do try.”

“Oh, but I’m sure that—”

She doesn't care for the conversation and so Ingrid leaves the room. She walks down the hallway, marching to her destination of the living room, and—

A hand on her wrist gently tugs her back.

“—Hey.”

Sylvain. 

“...Go take a break,” says Sylvain, eyes seeking hers, hand still on her wrist. It’s warm. “I’ll make sure they don’t notice.” 

She pulls off his grasp. He lets her. “No, I’m fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.”

“Come on,” says Sylvain. He lets out a sigh. “You might not get another chance.” 

“I don’t need it.”

“Ingrid.”

She stills.

Because some part of her is patronised by his tone, as it is the same one her father often employed when he was lecturing her childhood self. 

But the other part, for some reason, is comforted.

Though now that she thinks on it, hearing her name on his lips was always like that, wasn’t it?

Comforting. 

“I need you to,” says Sylvain, the sternness gone. Instead, it is...vulnerable. “Please. For me.”

For him.

Fine.

She’ll do it. For an innocent. 

“...Fine.”

“Thanks, Ing.” He ruffles her hair as if she were still ‘Ingie’ from childhood. Ugh, could he not— oh. He’s smiling. _That_ smile. That kind one, with such warmth. At her. Not at— “Take as long as you need. I’ll keep them distracted, yeah?”

He will. She knows he will. 

“...Thanks, Sylvain.” 

Somehow, his smile grows even more kind.

“No problem,” he says, and again, it’s somehow even more kind. So warm. “You know I’d do anything for you, yeah?”   
  
He would.  
  
But she knows.

She’s not the only one he’d do anything for. 

And it _hurts._

* * *

Even after all these years, Dedue’s bathroom tap only runs cold water. A fact that would have the usual Ingrid exasperated and in Mother Hen Mode —yes, even with a man who is 6’8 and arguably more mature than herself— but for now, she is merely grateful for the cool reprieve as she washes her face.

Eyes closed, Ingrid wipes and pats her skin dry with a handkerchief. Then, she is done. Then, she opens her eyes. Then, she is faced with the sight of herself.

Ingrid.

Ingrid, with smudged eyeliner under baggy red eyes, matte lipstick cracked, exposing her chapped lips chilled by the wintry winds (but who is she kidding, they’re always chapped, seasons be damned) and foundation, melting off of her dry, patchy skin.

Raw, unmasked, bare-faced, Ingrid.

It is hideous. _She_ is hideous. It’s stupid because she’s twenty-eight now and she knows that’s untrue. Even so, she feels undesirable, which in turn, makes her feel hysterical because she’s _twenty-eight_ and she should know better by now.

It is now. Not _then._ Then, when she felt this way. Years ago, _then,_ when she felt the urge to turn off the bathroom lights. Years ago, when she tried (emphasis on _tried)_ to wear ill-fitting dresses not made or meant for her before she gave the finger and said: "Fuck it". Way back then, when she started clinging to oversized hoodies and sweaters in muted colours.

Years ago, when she was twenty.

She remembers when, how and why it began and she wishes she didn’t.

But strangely, she can’t quite remember when, how or why it stopped. Even stranger, she’s not sure if she wishes she did.

_“I’m hideous.”_

She is not hideous. Neither is she particularly pretty, but she is _not_ hideous.

She is not hysterical. She is vulnerable. 

She is not being overly dramatic. He _lied._ When she trusted him.

Ingrid pulls out her makeup bag from her purse.

Rat.

_He laughs and it’s humiliating. But then, he says, “Why, that’s the most untrue thing I’ve heard all week.”_

Ingrid grabs her cleanser. She wipes the coal eyeliner, cracked matte and the melted remnants of her foundation. There. Not hideous. Not pretty, either, but she looks like a normal human being.

_“And considering the people that I interact with, that’s an achievement.”_

Grabbing her foundation and brush, Ingrid begins her process.

_“Well,” she says, “I am.”_

Her years under Dorothea's tutelage inform her movements and choices. That, and society’s expectation for professional women to look ‘pleasing’ in the office. Derdriu’s work culture is especially guilty of this.

_“You’re being rather harsh to yourself.”_

When she finishes priming and powdering her skin back to an acceptable state, she grabs her pencil eyeliner. Leaning closer to the mirror and resting her elbow on top of the counter, she draws the lines; short dashes, connecting with elegant streaks.

_“The truth is harsh.”_

The end result is decent. Not bad.

_“And beauty is pain, right?”_

“...Ow.” Ingrid winces. “I swear, eyelash curlers…”

_“But you? You don’t need pain to be beautiful.”_

“Whatever.” Ingrid shoves the curler back into her bag. “Who cares about mascara.”

_“Come on,” he says, pulling up towards him, under his umbrella. She looks up to him. He smiles, and he is as beautiful as ever. “I’ll cook up some nice food.”_

Right. Him.

_“...I’m sorry.”_

He was when it stopped.

_“Why?”_

No. He _made_ it stop.

_“I’ll be gone.”_

Even if she was still in love with Sylvain then.

_“Forever.”_

Ingrid chooses purple for her eyeshadow.

And for her lips, red.

* * *

When Ingrid returns with a face donning a new mask of metaphorical steel and of literal powdery product, none comment. Because as she knew he would, Sylvain keeps his word. 

So, she is not greeted by carefully phrased variations of _‘Are you okay?’_ or _‘Where were you?’,_ as would no doubt have been the case otherwise. Instead, she is greeted by the sight of Sylvain, regaling their friends with tales from years past, and cajoling them to listen in rapt interest via his whimsical witticisms and quick-witted quips.

Still, it appears that there is one such individual who is, rather unfortunately, immune to his charms. 

“...Welcome back,” Claude whispers as she sits next to him on the loveseat and— correction: sofa. Because when proper terminology makes one want to barf, there is a hint of a suggestion that it’s a shitty name anyway. “You good?”

How dare he. How. Dare. _He._

How dare he say that so lightly, in such a soft, considerate tone when he knows, that he’s the one who— 

“Ingrid.”

Correction. 

There are _two_ such immune individuals.

The first is immune, as he is too savvy to _not_ notice. Also, too nosy to _not_ make a comment because he can never, ever resist the urge to barge into other people’s business, can he? Just like how Felix— whatever. The conclusion? _Rat._

“Welcome back.” Byleth smiles from Dimitri’s side. As always, the sight of her soft smile is blinding. Though, it does not usually make her feel as if a grinder is deconstructing her innards into minced meat. Which is how she feels at current. How lovely. “Where did you go?”

The second is immune only because of her complete ineptitude to read the room. As always. As ever. As if she never wanted to ever learn and grow from her mistakes. Which is untrue, Ingrid knows, because Byleth _has_ improved. Even if it is but a microscopic smidgen. 

Both are equally infuriating.

“Oh, just the bathroom,” Ingrid replies with a smile, and it is definitely neither blinding or pretty, but she smiles anyway because she has to. For them. “Sorry that I took a while.”

“Ah,” says Byleth, with a nod. “Constipation.”

The manner in which Byleth speaks her conclusion is with such innocence and conviction that Ingrid almost feels guilty for what she next mouths to Dimitri: 

_Let. Me. Strangle. Her._

But she doesn’t feel guilt. Instead, she feels the urge to batter Byleth senseless with a stiletto, or dig her manicured nails into her pretty little neck, or smack her silly till she drops and— and Ingrid Galatea, defence attorney at Daphnel & Co., violence is abhorrent. It. Is. Abhorrent. Do not be a hypocrite, lest you give Felix a chance to call you out for— ugh, whatever. 

“No.” Dimitri sighs, running a hand over his face and then through his locks. How predictable. What a shame— Ingrid Brandl Galatea. No. “No, beloved, I highly doubt that. Also, it is...impolite to bring up such a topic.”

Impolite, yes. It is also extremely insensitive. But oh, what else? Perhaps the fact that it is humiliating? Embarrassing? Mortifying?

“Duly noted,” says Byleth, as if she's going to learn from her mistakes when she very evidently hasn’t. Then, she stares at Ingrid with her dead-fish eyes, which is _not_ a good sign. Oh goddess. What now? “Were you crying because of me and—”

Previously, Ingrid had an urge to execute all those aforementioned actions. 

Now? There is a _need._

“—Well, now that we’re all here, how about we start opening the presents?” Sylvain cuts in, jumping up from the sofa with a large ‘clap’ on his thighs. Hands on hips, he twirls around to face Byleth with a smile. A tense one. A fake one. She relates. “Come on, Byleth, go ahead. You were so excited to show Dimitri your gift, yeah? So, please. Just go first. Come on. Go.”

She smiles. “Thank you. I will.”

Byleth hops over to her personal pile of presents and Ingrid searches for Sylvain’s eyes. Predictably, he is looking at Mercedes and, well, of course he— oh, he’s just checking whether she’s distracted. Then, he meets Ingrid’s eyes, wiggling his brows and mouthing:

_I. Want. To. Punch. Her._

Ever so slightly, Ingrid’s lips quirk upwards. Now, violence _is_ abhorrent, but, well.

Perhaps it is not so bad if it is merely the _urge_ to commit violence. Enacting is horrible, of course. But...the urge. Perhaps that’s okay. 

And so, she returns the gesture, mouthing:

_I’d. Join. You._

“No.” As a fellow speaker of the ‘Faerghus Four’ dialect, Dimitri interrupts with a rejection and a metaphorical judge’s gavel. “You can’t.” 

“Hm?” Byleth hums, as she plops Dimitri’s present atop his lap. “What did you say?”

“Oh, nothing,” Dimitri replies with a smile, before brushing his lips against the top of Byleth’s hand. “Thank you, beloved.”

Then, as he releases their mutual hold, Ingrid watches Dimitri’s attempt at unwrapping the gift gently. His _attempt._ And of course, he utterly fails. Rips, tears and hushed swears of _“oh, why?”_ under his breath. It is a familiar sight. One Ingrid witnesses every birthday and St. Cichol day.

Then, the gift is revealed to all. 

Then, Dimitri’s smile falls.

Which is strange, because from a cursory glance, it is a perfectly fine gift. A gift that is also very Byleth: simple in style, practical in application and black in colour.

“...Leather,” Dimitri whispers under his breath. His tongue flickers over his upper lip and his throat bobs as he gulps. Strange. They’re just— "Gloves?”

“Yes.” Byleth interlocks her arm with Dimitri's, searching for his gaze. “I made it with Jeralt.”

“You did? Oh, that’s...that’s…” Again, his tongue flickers across his upper lips and— why is he so flustered? They’re just gloves. Dimitri breathes a soft laugh. “Wonderful. So very wonderful.”

Byleth brushes a lock away from his face. “I am glad.”

“Yes,” says Dimitri. He then turns to Byleth. “In fact, beloved, do you—”

“Hm?”

Were Ingrid to ever be posed the question of, ‘Does she know Dimitri well?’, she would answer yes. Because while she may not know nor understand him as well as before —love and life changed him— she is still one of his closest friends and confidant. He asked _her_ , after all, on advice on how to propose to Byleth. 

So, yes, they are close. She knows him well.

That being said, she could not say that she has ever seen such an expression on his face. One that is obscure in meaning, too complex to deconstruct, and so very...mysterious.

She cannot interpret its meaning.

“...Well,” says Dimitri, and his all too complex expression moulds into one of familiarity as his lips form a small smile. “Do you realise how much joy you bring to me?”

“I do.” Byleth laughs softly, so prettily and Dimitri is _smitten._ She can’t blame him. Who wouldn’t? Anyone would be. Anyone. Even _princes,_ apparently. A prince. Ugh. “I _do.”_

“Well,” Dimitri breathes, laughing softly. “I do hope to hear those words from your lips, in half a year's time.”

“I do—”

“—Okay, okay, we get it. You love each other very, very much but please. Let's move on to the next recipient, thank you!” Sylvain buts in with a groan, marching over to the small two-seater. He gestures a ‘shoo’ motion to Byleth that earns Dimitri’s frown. “For the single people. Please.” 

“Ah.” Byleth nods. She stands and plucks out a present from the pile. “For you, then, Sylvain.”

“Thank you,” says Sylvain, and predictably, he rips the paper with no care. He’s never been the type, after all. Then, with his present unveiled, he inspects it with a hum. “Huh, a history book on Sreng that I _don’t_ own? Good find.”

“It was admittedly difficult,” says Byleth, before then grabbing another present — or rather, heaving. It seems heavy. She presents it to Dedue. “Here."

Dedue nods. As with anything, he handles the gift with great care, deconstructing the wrapping job in reverse order. When the gift is unwrapped, the paper doesn’t even look used. Impressive.

“...Cast iron cookware,” Dedue notes, his lips quirked in a small smile. “Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” Byleth nods. Then, she procures two smaller gifts and presents one to Ingrid. She smiles gently. “Here, Ingrid.”

“...Thank you,” Ingrid replies, looking away from her smile because it is a conflicting sight. 

So instead of meeting the blinding sight head-on, Ingrid redirects her gaze to the gifts and begins her process of careful deconstruction. She is, after all, a systematic unwrapper. Therefore, she is not at all destructive like Dimitri or careless like Sylvain. But unfortunately, she does not possess the creativity of Dedue. Meaning, the end result still appears a little worn and torn. A shame.

And then the gift is revealed to her.

And it is...well. 

It is a ‘so very Byleth’ gift. 

“A—” Ingrid’s fingers brush over the bristles, “—curry comb?”

“Correct.”

A curry comb. Which, unlike what the name suggests, not food-related. It is simply a brush for a horse.

An animal she has not even touched in years. 

“Byleth,” Ingrid begins. “I don’t have a horse.”

“You did.”

“...Exactly,” says Ingrid. “I _did.”_

“Exactly,” Byleth replies. “Which is why I will buy you one.”

‘Exactly’, she says, as if— what. 

“What.”

Byleth nods with a proud grin, chest puffed. “I am going to buy you a horse,” she says. Then, with jazz hands —hold on a minute, _jazz hands?_ — she says, “Ta-da.”

‘Ta-da.’

Byleth just said ‘ta-da’. She also used jazz hands. 

She also just said that she is going to buy her a horse.

She...is going to buy her a horse. 

What? Why? How? When, if she is truly so determined to because Ingrid knows Byleth, she _would_ buy her a horse and—

“...Pfft!”

—and how lovely. So very lovely that _he_ finds this so very entertaining. Love- _ly._

So. Very. Lovely.

“...Byleth?”

“Yes?”

“I live in a small city apartment,” says Ingrid. “I can’t even have a large dog, let alone a horse.”

Byleth pauses. Then, she mutters, “...I had not considered that.”

How? How did she not consider that? 

Ingrid sighs. “Maybe you should have, then.”

A horse. It’s been years since she’s ridden one, let alone owned one, let alone _touch_ one.

And Ingrid wishes that weren’t the case. Because she will admit this to herself — she misses it all. The races, the practice, the simple strolls as she galloped across the fields of Galatea grain. The breeze, the high, the thrill she experienced when she won, whether it was as a child participating at the beginners level, or as an intermediate teenager or as an advanced young adult representing GMU. 

Victory was sweet. But that is not what she misses most —she experiences that thrill in court, after all— it is the bond between her and her horse. 

Her horses, who were her companions, her partners, her friends. How they reciprocated her love and provided her with such comfort.

She misses them.

Stahl, Kieran, Sully and Blue—

“...Should I—“ Byleth begins, and Ingrid already knows that whatever leaves her mouth is going to be absolutely ridiculous, “—buy you a house?”

A house. She’s never owned one. She would like to, eventually. Good luck with that in _this_ economy, though.

Except. 

What did she just say? 

“What.”

“A house,” Byleth says, matter-of-factly. “So that you can have a horse.” 

“I—” Ingrid begins, but she bites back her response, because how lovely. How lovely, that _he’s_ now sniggering and snickering and snorting at this very lovely proposition. Rat. “Look, Byleth, that’s not what I— ”

“—Can I?” Byleth looks over her shoulder, meeting eyes with Dimitri. “Buy her a house, I mean. And then a horse.” 

Dimitri sighs, covering his eyes with his hand. “No, beloved. You cannot buy her a house.” 

“...Then,” Byleth whispers, “A pony?”

Ingrid groans. “No!” 

“...A pony, huh?” Claude whispers by her side, smirk held back by bitten lips, and how dare he. He should just be quiet. “Nice idea.”

Rat. 

“Oh, a pony!” Mercedes clasps her hands together, laughing so very gently, softly, and as ever, so prettily. “That would be _so_ cute.”

“I—” Now, ponies _would_ be cute. Ingrid adores them. So stout and stumpy. Even so. “No. No ponies.”

“A donkey, then?” Sylvain joins, hiding a grin with his hand — and ugh, no! No donkeys! “Donkeys are pretty practical, you know. Just like a certain— 

“—Sylvain.” Ingrid hisses, giving him her ‘look’. “No. Donkey.” 

“A donkey would be so cute!” Mercedes giggles. “With their floppy little ears.”

“A donkey?” Byleth pauses. She then gasps. “A _donkey!”_

Ingrid groans. “No!”

“But Ingrid, a donkey would suit you well! For they are such robust, useful and practical animals. You could even sell its milk for a profit, as cosmetic companies— ”

“—Byleth.” Ingrid interrupts with a harsh whisper. “No donkeys, no horses, no ponies. No house—"

“—A pegasus, then?”

“No! Not a— ” Ingrid pauses. She turns to her side. Firstly, how dare he interrupt. Secondly, how dare he smirk. Thirdly, how dare absolutely _everything._ Still. Smile, Ingrid. Smile, smile, smile. For you have an audience. “No, Claude. No pegasus.”

“A shame,” says Claude, as he reaches out for his glass of wine atop the coffee table. “I think you’d be rather dashing on one.”

“...Indeed,” says Byleth. “If only.”

Claude sips at his glass. “If only, indeed.”

There is an implication. Sub-text. Insider’s information. Context that she lacks. That _they_ have and, and— 

How dare they.

How dare. 

“Claude.” Byleth places a small present on the coffee table. “Your gift.”

“Oh?” Claude hums against the rim of his glass. “You got me something?”

“Why would I not?”

“True.” He smiles. Then, he reaches out and opens it, but who cares how. Who cares. Who. Cares. “...Oh.”

Ingrid may not care but she is curious. What would Byleth, who apparently knows Claude so very well, get him? A strategy game? A foreign book on an obscure topic? A statuette from an age ago?

So, Ingrid spares the small gift a glance and— huh.

“A…” Claude pinches the gift in-between his thumb and index finger, inspecting it. “Single board game piece?”

“Yes.” Byleth smiles softly, eyes crinkling as she watches him handle the piece — and Ingrid wrenches her eyes away. “The King.”

“Interesting.” After a moment, Claude glances Byleth’s way. Assessing. Evaluating. “Why?”

“I thought of you when I saw it.”

“Why?” Claude asks, in a hushed tone. “Why did you think of me?”

Ingrid almost scoffs. Is the answer not obvious? Why, is it not the _royalty_ connection? Because he allegedly a prince of— although. 

Though she _will_ admit, it is a strange gift, even for Byleth. A single board game piece. Why just the one? Why not the whole boardgame? It _does_ look antiquated, what with its marble and gold lining, but a single piece? That is odd, even for an odd person.

So, why?

“I’m…” Byleth’s voice trails off, as her lips contort into a stern line. “Not sure.” 

“You’re not sure,” Claude says, eyes locked onto the piece. Then, his eyes seek Byleth and Ingrid tastes iron in her mouth. He whispers, tone soft, yet still somehow stern, “Or you don’t remember?”

Byleth pauses. Then, she whispers back, “What do you— ”

“Beloved,” says Dimitri, standing from his seat and walking over to Byleth’s side. He presses his hand against her back, sending her a small smile. A hint of something. “I believe that Claude may have taken offence to his gift.”

“What?” Byleth says, frowning. “Did you?”

“No, not at all.” Claude chuckles. Then with a smile, he covers the board game piece with his palm, enveloping it. “I like it. Very much. Thank you.” 

“...I see,” says Byleth. She smiles. It is blinding, as always. So beautiful. “You are welcome, then.”

“No need for that,” says Claude. He smile and its beauty matches hers. Then, he whispers, voice so soft that it _kills_ her to see it, “Thank you, Byleth.”

And his voice is even softer when he speaks her name. 

And she can’t _do_ this anymore.

She _wanted_ to, she _tried_ to, she said she _would,_ she _was_ trying, but she just can’t _take_ this anymore. 

Because this? All of this? It’s Continental Year 3020 and she’s back there and she is hideous. She is pathetic, she is jealous, she is envious, she is disgusting and she is _hideous._

And she feels the numbness returning, crawling up her goosebump ridden skin with its blemishes and spots and its flaws, and vomit is fighting its way up her esophagus, and her eyes are burning and tearing up, and her innards and guts are twisting like a towel being wrung dry, and how very _hideous_ she must be and—

“—Alright, come on.”

And Ingrid looks up.  
  
And there is Sylvain, his hand on Byleth’s wrist, eyes so very, very, cold and his voice equally as chilly.

“...How about we move on?” says Sylvain, his lips formed in a smile, but without any warmth to it. It is threatening. Suggestive of intimidation, and not at all meant to be interpreted otherwise. “Next person.” 

Oh. She...she thought that— well. She somehow thought that by ‘come on’, that, well. 

That he was going to whisk her away from here, like some sort of knight from chivalry. Strange. She always wanted to be the knight, never the damsel, and yet—

She would’ve gone with him. 

“...I will begin,” says Dedue, climbing off the couch and walking over to the present pile.

“Oh, actually, can I have a moment?” Mercedes stands also, grabbing her purse from the coffee table. “I think I’d like to fix up my make-up.”

Fix up her makeup? Why? She doesn’t need to. She’s never even needed makeup in the first place. She’s always been so— whatever. She is so pathetic. Wallowing in self-pity, like some sort of sulking child. She is twenty-eight. She needs to act it.

“Very well.” Dedue nods, sitting back down on the sofa. “I will wait for your return, then.”

“Thank you,” Mercedes says, flashing a pretty smile Dedue’s way. She then searches through her purse. “Oh my. How silly. I left my makeup at home.”  
  
Mercedes looks to her with kind eyes and a kind smile.

“Ingrid, do you mind if I borrow some of your makeup?”

She parts her lips to speak a proper, planned response — _“Oh, of course, no problem”_ — yet all she can manage is a weak nod.

“Wonderful. Thank you kindly.” Mercedes walks over, and gasps before turning to her. “Oh, and can you show me the bathroom? I haven’t been yet, so I’m unsure.” 

Again, she tries, but all she manages is a soft, shaky, “...Yeah.”

Mercedes interlocks her arm with Ingrid’s own. “How lovely of you. Let’s get going then.”

Ingrid Brandl Galatea is a defence attorney. A quite good one at that. She has, after all, never lost a trial. 

But it seems from how the eyes of pity are dug into her, marking her skin, inscribing apologies and platitudes— well.

It seems that she has lost a case for the first time in her life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooooooooo....
> 
> hi
> 
> early update
> 
> why?
> 
> BECAUSE MERCEDES GRABBED ME BY THE SHOULDERS, SAT ME DOWN AND WAS LIKE:
> 
> “Let me talk to Ingrid☺️.”
> 
> AND I WAS LIKE:
> 
> “ok👁👄👁 ”
> 
> Look Mercedes gets what Mercedes wants.
> 
> So yeah. I guess the party is a three-parter now. Fck man, it really is the rising action of the plot, ain't it, jfc. But um, I think we're going to NEED it to be a three-parter, cause. 
> 
> There's a scene that needs room to breathe.
> 
> Next Update: September 12th.
> 
> EDIT: Nope. Not gonna make it. Sorry ya'll,,,14th of September now. 
> 
> Edit: nope...not gonna make it. I've been really tired recently, ugh. Aiming for 20th now, I need to be kind to myself. I've written 3700 words, and am 40% done. 
> 
> Edit: THE NEXT CHAPTER IS KILLING ME!! UGH!! I’m sorry guys, I’m working on it, but it will come out when it will come out. FCK!!!  
> Edit: Guys. Guess who made big progress. It’s coming soon, guys. Expect it this week. I am so happy!! EEK! (Estimate: 7000-8000 words, pretty chonky!) 
> 
> Few Notes:  
> -Chapter 1 has been rewritten.  
> -Text messages are no longer images. It is made out of CSS now. Unfortunately, this means that Ingrid is no longer an Android user. Sad...  
> -Changing the currency 'gold' to 'dollars' because it's stupid.


	10. She Won’t Do It. She Won't Take It. She Won’t Endure It. For Herself.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ON THE LAST EPISODE OF CHAMPAGNE, WINE AND VODKA...
> 
> [](https://imgflip.com/i/4g5hzc)  
> 
> 
> [](https://imgflip.com/memegenerator)  
> 
> 
> (I'm too tired to go back right now, but it's now 'Duscuran', not 'Duscurian. It was stoopid.) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CONTENT WARNINGS:
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 

Mercedes von Martritz is a psychologist.

It is a career that Ingrid believes suits Mercedes perfectly, considering her attributes and even some of her flaws (her flaws? What flaws?). Her attributes being, of course, her benignity, sensitivity, generosity, sagacity and— well, there is no end to the métier of the one such ‘Mercedes von Martritz’, it seems. She’s an angel, after all. A beacon of kindness to anyone, whether they be strangers, acquaintances, companions or nemeses.

A woman above reproach.

But no, Mercedes _must_ possess flaws. Otherwise, how unfair would that be? Plus, she’s a homo sapien, not an angel. The comparison from before was purely metaphorical. Mercedes is _not_ perfect, no one possibly is and— right, she is, well, extraordinarily clumsy. To the extent that she almost burnt down the Blue Lions dorm kitchen at least three times. Thank the Goddess for Dedue’s timely intervention and presence on each occasion, otherwise none of them would be here alive.

But, well, apparently clumsiness (even life-threatening clumsiness, at that) is cute. Strangely. For whatever reason. Whatever, who even— but yes. That’s the only flaw she can really think of right now. Clumsiness. Which is apparently cute. Which therefore apparently cancels it out as a flaw.

Therefore, Mercedes _is_ a perfect angel. Flawless. Beautiful. Benevolent.

But herself?

A flawed, imperfect, hideous, green-eyed demon.

And how _shameless_ she is.

“One deep breath in…”

How _insolent_ she is.

“And one deep breath out...perfect. Exactly, just like that.”

How _hideous_ she is.

“Repeat the process…and think of something kind and warm. Like bunnies—” Ingrid had a bunny once, just for two months, then it died and it was all her— “—family—” oh goddess, what will her family think? A _prince?_ No, what will _his_ — “—or even hot chocolate. Then breathe in…”

Hot chocolate.

Hot chocolate, with white choc chips, like how Dad (Dad. What would he say to her in a situation like this? _‘It’s never horrible forever, Ingrid’)_ makes it for her.

Or like how Vincent makes it (Vince. Oh, the lecture he’d give her. Oh, how he’d kill _him_ ) with marshmallows. Or like when Gabriel (Gabe. He’d probably pat her head, then buy her some beer, chips and rotisserie chicken) does with peanut butter. Or how she makes it for Julian (Oh goddess, Jules. He’ll never let her live it down) with some cinnamon.

Or hot chocolate, with strawberries from the old garden, before the weeds had overrun it, and before its caretaker...yes, just like how Mom used to make it (What would Mom even say? She doesn’t even really remember what Mom was like then, much less understand what she would be like _now)_ when she was still—

“...then out. Lovely. You’re doing so well.”

No, she’s not, she’s doing horribly, because she’s trying to breathe but she’s not breathing at all, because it’s like there’s the edge of a newly sharpened knife lodged an inch away from her heart and it feels like— like if she moves her diaphragm with even the slightest of breaths, then it might just prick, stab and puncture her and then she’ll be—

“—And let’s reign it in a little with a one, two, three. Breathe in…”

Breathe in.

Breathe. In.

Breathe in, breathe in, _breathe—_

“Now, now,” Mercedes’ breath fans her ear as she whispers, firm hands stroking her back like a mother burping a baby. Mom. Mom! Why did you have to—“It’s okay. This will pass.”

She knows that. It always does. Yes, exactly, it will pass. It. Will. Pass. So, breathe in. One, two, three. And then breathe out—

“One, two, three…”

—one, two, three.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

One, two, three, _four, five, six, seven—_

“Maybe we can throw in another language, hm? Just to spice things up a little. Like...” Laughing ever so softly, so prettily, Mercedes’ breath tickles her ear — and because Ingrid’s paranoid it sounds like mockery, despite her logic reassuring her otherwise. How pathetic. Such feeble attempts to demonise an angel. Pathetic. “Rhut, tuhl, brahs…”

Duscuran? Duscuran, then.

Rhut, tuhl, brahs.

“And then again, breathing out. Rhut, tuhl, brahs…”

Rhut, tuhl, brahs.

Rhut, tuhl, brahs.

Rhut, tuhl, brahs, yut, _five, six, seven_ —

No!

No, that doesn’t help any better. She’s spiralling, whirling, losing— right, instead, maybe, she could—

“Oh? You know Srengese? That’s lovely. We can do that then.”

Oh. She said it out loud? So she’s speaking, then? Good. But she can’t hear herself, so that’s not good. Bad.

“Vrich, jur, sett...oh, how lovely. You’re doing so wonderfully, Ingrid.”

Vrich, jur, sett.

Vrich, jur, sett…

Vrich...jur...sett…

That helps. For some reason, it helps. And for some reason, she thinks of him and— it helps even more.

It helps.

It really helps.

And then the knife that is at her heart gradually, slowly, eventually backs off to the extent that she feels like she can breathe again, just a little, just a bit, but just enough for her to _breathe again._

…She can breathe again but her legs are weak. Useless, struggling, _weak,_ like a recently birthed foal, like Sully’s first filly. Ingrid falls, and the cold tiles smack her kneecaps. Palms travel to cover her eyes, _breathing, breathing, breathing,_ and sweat pools from her forehead, leaking through the gap between her hands to wet her closed lids.

Then, two firm grasps tug at her wrist. It encourages her to stand, just a little, just enough, just a little bit more — and now she is sitting on the closed toilet seat, stabilised. Momentarily, temporary, and in transitory, perhaps, but it is _enough._

Enough, Ingrid. _Enough_ of this.

“So…” A soft, elongated whisper. Mercedes.

Ingrid’s hands continue to shield her eyes because she’s not ready yet, even though she needs to be, damn it. But she’s too tired, weak, pathetic to see it, see _her_ , her and her, well, her— goddess, she is weak, petty and pathetic. How pathetic, how disgusting, how _hideous_.

“I’m not sure if you heard me before, so I’ll say it again.” Mercedes massages one side of her shoulder in a soothing, rolling motion. Light squeeze, release, harder squeeze, release. “What you had just there was a panic attack.”

A panic attack. From this? Humiliation? Embarrassment? How pathetic. How weak. It’s not as if it’s another death.

“It’s very normal and very common. I’ve had a few myself, actually. Even in the past week, I—”

“—I know what it is.”

There is a two second gap before Mercedes replies with a simple: “Oh, I see.”

Goddess, she’s so rude to her. This is ridiculous. Why can’t she be kind? Like _she_ is? Why must she be so bitter and petty, even after all these years? It’s been years. Years. Years, and she even lacks the excuse this time. But perhaps it is trauma. Oh, sure, ‘trauma’. The most pathetic form of trauma caused by the most pathetic of emotions: illogical, throat-burning, heart-clutching _jealousy._

Ingrid tears her hands away from her eyes and forces herself to look into Mercedes’ soulful gaze. So beautiful. So kind. So deserving. Biting her lip, Ingrid mutters, “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. To cut you off.”

“No, no, it’s perfectly fine. In fact, I’m glad you’re talking to me.” Mercedes smiles with her glossy, smooth lips, pretty as ever. Goddess, such a persistently pathetic thought. Enough, Ingrid. Enough. “So you’ve had one before, then?”

~~_“Wh t? Wh t do you mean th t M mm y—”_ ~~

~~_“H w di he...h w? Oh g dd s s, Gl n—”_ ~~

~~_“Wh’s th re ? Wh’s th re with you? Da m n it, Sy l ain—”_ ~~

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“One, two, three, Ingrid.”

One, two, three. One, two, three.

_“This is how you pronounce it. Vrich. Jurr. Sett. Got it?”_

Vrich.

_“...Nope. In fact, here’s a fun fact. You just said ‘penis’.”_

Jur.

_“I’m not lying! Look it up yourself. Goddess, you didn’t need to smack me.”_

Sett.

“A few times.”

“Mm.” Mercedes hums, both hands now grasping Ingrid’s shoulders, loosening the tense muscles. It helps. “It’s a horrible feeling, isn’t it? But it always ends.”

“It does,” Ingrid replies, a shaky breath leaving her, but it _is_ a breath. Good. Better. _Good._ “But it never feels like it.”

“That’s true...” Mercedes nods, speaking softly. “But it always, always does.”

Silence.

Now, silence, she appreciates. At current, she needs it. She wants it. Because her head is whirling, twirling and circumventing because of the overload — Claude is a prince _(why didn’t he tell her?)_ , he found out about Duscur _(why didn’t she tell him?)_ and he lied about Byleth _(how dare he?)_.

It is silence that she both wants and needs, but for some reason, Mercedes, a most qualified psychologist with a Masters from the prestigious Garreg Mach University, denies it to her.

“I noticed you seemed a little distracted tonight. A little nervous, or even a bit anxious,” says Mercedes, and it is her work voice. It’s easy to recognise — Ingrid has her own ‘lawyer’ voice, after all. “You don’t have to tell me anything, of course, but I do admit that I’m a little worried. Do you feel comfortable sharing?”

It’s Mercedes. Anyone would feel comfortable about telling her anything. She’s so kind, empathetic and understanding, after all. Always has been and always will be. Mercedes, who always knows _“what to do, what to say, to make everything a-okay”,_ as Sylvain always used to repeat so commonly, that it might as well have been his catchphrase.

But here is the issue. Where does she even begin? How far back must she go? To Duscur, in Continental Year 3015? Or when she met Claude, in Continental Year 3027? Or must she return to Continental Year 3020, when she was still so hopelessly, so pathetically in—

“You don’t have to say anything.” There is an amended firmness to Mercedes’ tone. A grounding one. It is a comfort. “But if you choose to, you can say as little or much as you want. Personally, I find it helpful to talk out my feelings with another person, but not everyone is like that.”

Some do, some don’t. Ingrid, however, is in the middle. She only trusts her truest self with those closest to her, being her family and friends.

Of her family and in this order: Gabe, Dad, Jules and then Vince, if she must. Dad is gentle but dismissive, Jules is relatable but too young, and Vince is, _ugh,_ so overprotective. But Gabe is just right — gentle, relatable and allows for her independence.

He also buys her the best junk food.

Of her friends: circumstantially Felix, often but never always Dimitri, and always, always Sylvain. Felix is the knife that cuts through biases and bullshit, while Dimitri is gentle just like Dad but at times, similarly obtuse. And Sylvain? Sylvain is just right, in a way different from Gabe. From all of them. He joins her in her fury, in her melancholy, in her period-enhanced hysteria. He justifies her emotions and acknowledges her.

And he also buys her pretty damn good junk food.

“My, your brow is so sweaty. Let me just…”

Ingrid looks up from her hands, watching as Mercedes pulls out a handkerchief from her purse. A silk, black one, that she would honestly not expect from her. Lacey, frilly, embroidered with flowers and hearts; now _that_ would suit her— but hold on.

A silk, black handkerchief?

“Now, here we—”

“—Why do you have Sylvain’s handkerchief?”

Mercedes blinks, pausing the dabbing motion by Ingrid’s brow. “Oh, this?”

Ingrid nods, eyes fixed on the item. Silk and black. Common enough features that one may accuse her conclusion as foolhardy or even hasty. But trust her, for Ingrid is flawed in many ways, but she is neither foolhardy or hasty. She is a careful scrutiniser, through and through.

And from her careful scrutiny, she has extracted three factors. Three factors which contribute to the confidence in her conclusion.

Factor #1.

The style of the item is so decidedly _not_ Mercedes. Considering their connection, it is not far-reaching to presume he gave it to her— and, what? He _gave_ it to _her?_

Factor #2.

The ultimate proof of Sylvain’s possession is this: it is a custom made item. See? His initials are embroidered. ‘S.J.G’.

Factor #3.

Ingrid is the one who had it made for him.

“Oh, Sylvain let me borrow it,” says Mercedes, and Ingrid stares at the hand straightening a crooked corner. She stares. Hard. “You see, I spilled some wine on my dress and—”

“—No, you didn’t,” says Ingrid. “He stopped it.”

“Oh, no, no. Not before.” Mercedes shakes her head. “On Tuesday.”

Tuesday?

Tuesday.

“Tuesday?”

Mercedes nods. “Yes, we had dinner together.”

Tuesday? Tuesday. Dinner? Dinner. Tuesday dinner? Wasn’t that when— “Wasn’t that when you were at Dedue’s?”

“Yes.” Mercedes nods with a soft smile, gaze measured. “At Dedue’s.”

At Dedue’s? At Dedue’s. But— “But I was there,” says Ingrid, “and _he_ wasn’t.”

“Oh, well, that would be because he left before you arrived.”

“Oh.”

Mercedes nods. “Mm.”’

Ingrid looks down. Oh.

So, he left before she arrived. Okay.

But she called before she arrived and Mercedes knew that she was coming so— “Did he—” Ingrid gulps and there is pain, for her throat feels scratched, “—know that I was coming?”

“...Well. Hmm.” Mercedes hums, finger to her chin. She nods. “Yes. Yes, he did.”

He knew.

He knew and he left. Meaning, he was already avoiding her by Tuesday. Tuesday? What did she even do? He was fine at the party, and, and— that _asshole._ That inconsiderate ass. ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow’, he says, avoiding her, avoiding _telling_ her. Why, damn it? Why tomorrow? Why not today?

Yes, yes, she _agreed_ to tomorrow, but Tuesday? What happened by _then?_ What did she do? What caused it?

They’re them. Ingrid and Sylvain. She’s always there for him and he’s always there for her. So _why?_ Why didn’t he stay? Why did he avoid her?

To be with _her?_

~~_“Ingrid,” he says, and he looks so joyful, so giddy in a way she’s never seen in their long years of friendship. “Mercedes and I are—”_ ~~

“Oh, by the way,” says Mercedes, laughing lightly, as if there was something to laugh about, even though nothing is— well. Her current state is worthy of mockery, she supposes. Pathetic, petty and weak. “It was just a coincidence that Sylvain and I had dinner. We had no plans to meet up.”

Oh. Oh, okay. “Oh—” Ingrid pauses, because what? No, it’s not ‘oh, okay’. Who cares? They can meet up. It’s none of her business. It’s _their_ business. “I see,” she says, rubbing her arm. “Though, it’d be fine either way.”

“Hmm.” Mercedes hums. “Really?”

What? What does ‘ _really’_ mean? Ingrid crosses her arms and— ugh, her head. It feels so heavy. So sluggish. Ugh. “Yes.”

“...I see. Well, then, the truth of it is that—” The truth of it? What does she mean by ‘the truth of it’? Did she lie? Did they...did they actually— “—I went to see Dedue.”

Dedue? Dedue. “Dedue?”

“Yes.” Mercedes nods, laughing as she does so, and the tone of it is— nervous? Why? “This is a little bit embarrassing to admit, but…”

And why is she blushing? Why is she twirling a lock of hair, like a shy school girl? Biting her lip, twisting her ring? Why does she look like she did back in Continental Year 3020, when she was with—

“I have feelings for him,” Mercedes says and— what? Who? Which _him?_ Because if it’s— “Dedue, I mean.”

Dedue.

She likes Dedue? What? “You—” Ingrid sputters, “have feelings for Dedue?”

Mercedes blushes, ever so prettily. “Yes.”

No.

No, she can’t. Because Sylvain is still in love with Mercedes. He loves her again, and for Mercedes to love Dedue, then that would mean—

“And I think he reciprocates the sentiment.”

—that his heart will be broken all over again.

Sylvain will be broken again.

~~_(the used condoms, countless cigarette packs that should not have been there, the smell of women’s perfume—)_ ~~

And she’ll need to fix him again.

~~_“Ingrid,” he says, and his smile is so genuine and him that she can’t help but just stare. “Thank you for—”_ ~~

She’ll need to fix him again.

“...Oh, well, this is rather embarrassing.” Mercedes laughs, voice cracking. She clears her throat, tapping her neck. “I hadn’t meant to speak of _my_ feelings, of all things.”

Ingrid hadn’t expected that either. Of all things to come out of her mouth, this— this _revelation_ was not one that she expected. Dedue? And Mercedes? Well, they’d— well, they’d suit each other very well, of course, sure, but friends, dating each other’s exes? Dedue’s stoicism and Mercedes’ kindness be damned, that is a recipe for disaster!

She needs more information. To prevent this recipe from ever being cooked, to speak. She must. For him.

“No, no, um…” Ingrid begins, “Go ahead. I think it’ll help distract me.” A pause. Damn it. “Oh, um, that’s not to suggest that I’m taking this, your _feelings,_ lightly, I just—”

Mercedes giggles. She giggles and it is the sweetest sound that Ingrid has ever heard. It is a sound that would entrance anyone, no doubt. No wonder why Dedue, stoic, generally so unmoved Dedue, reciprocates. And no wonder why Sylvain’s still so enraptured, even after all these years. No wonder.

“Oh, I know, Ingrid.” Mercedes smiles, caressing a stray lock of Ingrid’s fringe away from her forehead, curling it behind her ear. “I know.”

She always knows, doesn’t she? Knows everything. Well, not everything. She didn’t know in Continental Year 3020, after all. Well. To the extent of Ingrid’s knowledge.

“But if it’s helping, then I’m glad to speak more of it. Although...” Mercedes sighs. “I’m afraid there’s not much to say.”

“How so?” says Ingrid. “He reciprocates, right?”

He reciprocates, and Sylvain would be so, _so_ —

“I don’t believe he’ll ever act on it,” says Mercedes, twisting the pearl ring on her index finger. “Which is a shame, but that’s life, isn’t it?”

“What?” Ingrid scoffs, because, what? _What?_ “Why wouldn’t he act on it? It’s _you._ You’re Mercedes.”

“Indeed I am,” says Mercedes with soft, bell-like laughter. It is gentler, prettier than anything Ingrid could ever produce.

She could never.

“And you’re absolutely gorgeous! And—” Untangled, smooth locks with no split ends. Soft bodied, shaped like female paragon, with curves where it matters. No blemishes, no pimple scars, no moles. But her outer beauty is nothing compared to her inner, not when she’s so— “—benign, sensitive, generous, sagacious and—”

“Oh my, Ingrid! I’m blushing.”

Ingrid pauses, looking up to find Mercedes _actually_ blushing, pink-faced, ever so prettily. Does she not realise that she’s just proving her point?

“You’re too kind.” Grinning, Mercedes ‘bops’ Ingrid’s nose. Bop? Bop. “Why couldn’t I have fallen for you, I wonder?”

“Oh. Um,” Ingrid stammers dumbly. “Thank you?” she says, because what else can she say? Ugh, this is mortifying.

“Oh, you’re welcome.” Still grinning, Mercedes twirls a lock around her finger. Her smile drops. “But to answer your question…”

Her question? Oh, oh right. Why Dedue isn’t (apparently) willing to take things any further. What? How? _Why?_

“Emile is why.”

Emile?

Oh.

Emile.

“...Oh,” Ingrid nods. It seems so obvious now. Emile. Right, Emile. “I see. That…”

That makes sense.

“Again, it’s…” Mercedes’ tongue flickers to swipe her upper lip, further tarnishing the gloss, revealing chapped lips. Oh. So, hers are chapped too? “A shame, but that’s life.”

“That’s—” Ingrid squints. What? ‘That’s life?’ “—what do you mean by that?”

“Well…” Mercedes’ gaze looks to the bathroom mirror. One, two, three steps over, and she is by the sink. Inspecting her lips, she pulls at loose, dried skin. Oh. She does that too? “Sometimes the Goddess deems things contrary to your hopes. There’s always a reason for it, though. It just takes time for you to recognise it.”

“Recognise what?”

Mercedes’ gaze remains fixed on her reflection in the mirror. Somehow, even though she’s smiling, she—

“That some things are futile.”

—she looks so sad.

And in all of her years of knowing Mercedes, Ingrid has never seen her like this before. So hopeless. So resigned. So— empty. Even though she is a woman full of such kindness, vitality and life.

“Fate, especially so,” says Mercedes. “Fate dictated by the Goddess. It just can’t be helped. You just have to accept it at the time, and remember that the Goddess will always—”

“—Aren’t you a psychologist?”

“Pardon?” Mercedes blinks, looking back to Ingrid, surprised. And why? Ingrid’s the shocked party here.

“Mercedes, listen to yourself. Would you _ever_ say this to a client?” Ingrid stands from the toilet seat, marching over, one, two, three, staring into Mercedes’ doe eyes. “No. No, you wouldn’t.”

Mercedes stares back dumbly. “I…”

“If you really like him, which is the impression that you are giving me—” Ingrid should stop. She really should stop, before she goes too far. Look at her, running her mouth, pretending she knows more about the matters of the heart than a psychologist. Well, a psychologist who has a gaping blind spot for herself, so maybe she _should_ keep going. “—then screw ‘life’. Screw the Goddess. Screw Dedue, for that matter! Both metaphorically and otherwise—”

Mercedes snorts and, oh goddess, she needs to stop and— and Mercedes snorts too? Huh.

“—Anyway,” Ingrid gulps. “Anyway, you should try. You should struggle against fate. And—” She’ll never shut up, will she? And she’s saying all this as if she’s done this, when it‘s just what she wished she had done. Oh, at least Mercedes seems to be enjoying it, from her widening smile and sparkling eyes. Oh goddess. This is mortifying. “—If you really love someone, then you should go after them. No matter what.”

Silence.

Now, _this_ silence is one that she neither wants or needs — because it is a silence that makes her skin burn hotter as every second passes, as Mercedes’ grin keeps getting bigger. And bigger. And _bigger._ How?

“...My, Ingrid.” Oh no. Oh no, no, no, no, Mercedes, stop that grin, and don’t you dare— “You’re such a hopeless romantic!”

“What?” Ingrid scoffs. “Ugh, no! I’m really, really not.”

“Oh, yes, you are!” Mercedes laughs, and the bells cling, clack and sing. “Just like a certain somebody.” 

Ingrid blinks. “Pardon?”

“Oh, nothing.” Mercedes smiles an obviously guilty smile, but Ingrid lets the case rest. She senses a tease, after all. “But you know, I hadn’t expected that _I_ would be having a pep-talk. I was hoping for the opposite, actually.”

“What—” Ingrid pauses, lips parting to form in question, and— and then she remembers. She bites her lip. “Right.”

She remembers why they’re here in the first place, in Dedue’s bathroom, and not in the living, with everyone else. She remembers why she was panicking, why she was so horrible to herself (why does it not go away?) and why her body feels so spent.

“...Say, Ingrid,” says Mercedes, softly, and Ingrid looks up to meet her considered gaze. “Would you allow me to return the favour?”

Mercedes is neither friend or family.

Neither friend nor family, sure, but she _is_ a psychologist, and not only that — Mercedes is also the kindest person Ingrid has ever known.

She can trust her. Probably.

“Okay.”

* * *

“Oh goodness,” Mercedes says, caressing the outline of Ingrid’s fingers with her own, palm atop hers. “You’ve been through so much. You must have felt so hurt. So humiliated.”

“...I was,” says Ingrid, and her voice hitches with another sob. Ugh. She’s so— “Sorry, I’m so—”

“You’re not pathetic, weak or petty,” Mercedes repeats in that sweet, soothing tone. But oh goddess, Mercedes must be so sick of her by now. Even she’s sick of her own self-deprecation. Ridiculous, Ingrid, you’re an adult— “No, you’ve been hurt, and it’s okay to let yourself feel negatively towards the people who hurt you. Every feeling you experience is justified.”

Ingrid blinks and a tear falls down her cheek. “Yes, I know that logically, but I’m still so—”

“Shh.” Mercedes dabs the handkerchief —Sylvain’s— on Ingrid’s skin, and somehow, it helps. It’s the silk. “You’re not any of those things, okay?”

“I know that, I do, but I keep thinking—”

“—you’re not what your thoughts are. Those are just nasty little things that your brain concocts, but it doesn’t mean that it’s what you are. You’re not what you think.”

The words are a comfort, but Mercedes can only say that because she is ignorant of the true her. Ingrid, who is so bigoted, insensitive, parsimonious, vacuous and—

“It’s okay. It’s okay to cry. To just let it all out.”

But she already is, and what a sight it is. Look at her. She is a legendary ugly crier; snot dribbling, complexion bursting with piggish pink, with puffed-up eyebags forming in response to her bawling, sobbing and hitching. A crier, who becomes so pathetic, so weak and so worthless, that she cannot even get up from her bed due to the depressive lethargy crying brings out of her.

Oh, and goddess, how come the tears won’t dry up? She’s already cried so much today. No doubt she’s dehydrating, especially considering how little water she drank in comparison to the wine. Honestly, this is probably the most she’s cried since— no. Don’t even think about it. Don’t, otherwise she’ll truly never stop. She’ll spiral.

Ingrid sighs a deep, heavy breath and it’s good. Good. She can afford to exhale now, even though she couldn’t just a moment before. Good. She’s recovering, and it’s really, truly, all thanks to the woman beside her, joining her on the cold bathroom floor — and while no doubt Dedue keeps it spick-and-span (considering his addiction to trying out new cleaning products), she’s grateful for the gesture. Because, well, it’s somebody’s bathroom floor that they’re sitting on. Who knows what’s been here (no offence, Dedue).

So, Ingrid turns her head, meeting Mercedes’ eyes with her own — and goddess, her reflection is so clear in her violet, and _damn it,_ her makeup is a mess again. Still, Ingrid gives a smile, even if, oh goddess, she can tell that Mercedes can tell that it's so feeble, weak and insincere. Insincere in that she doesn’t _want_ to smile, perhaps. But she _is_ sincere in her feeling of gratitude. Hence, her effort, despite how vomit-inducing the sight of her reflection is.

“T-thank you,” she says, voice hitching, and no, Ingrid, swallow it down. Stop sobbing like a six-year old whose pony doll was vandalised. “For listening.”

“You’re welcome, Ingrid.” Mercedes smiles, squeezing her hand. “I’m glad I’ve seemed to have helped.”

“You really have.” Ingrid lets out a soft sigh, and the feeble smile grows stronger with her next words. “Thank you so much.”

Mercedes laughs softly, a hand pressed against her chest. “Oh, it’s nothing. I just saw a friend in need.”

Oh. A friend? Mercedes considers her a friend? That’s— really nice, actually. Because, well, Mercedes is— right. Exactly, Mercedes is _kind_.

She’s just being polite. It’s been years, after all, since they last saw each other. The last time being, of course, just before Mercedes moved to Enbarr, after she broke Sylvain’s heart. So, no, they weren’t even truly friends back then, or even before then, or rather, especially _because_ it was then.

That being said, however, to hear the words from her lips is— well.

It’s liberating.

“So,” Mercedes begins, tone still soft and hush. “Are you going to stay over for the night?”

Ingrid blinks, and the leftover droplets plop down her cheeks. “Pardon?”

“Oh, you know. Dedue has a guest room or two, doesn’t he?” Mercedes continues. ”I’m sure he’d be okay with you staying over.”

Oh. So, she thinks that she’s going to stay. That she’s not going to go back to the hotel. That she’s going to avoid _him._ To rest, to recuperate, to revise over the night, in the presence of those who she trusts.

It is a most sensible action. An action that Ingrid could see Mercedes taking — but Ingrid is _not_ Mercedes. Mercedes is a thinker, a feeler, while Ingrid is doer and a...not-feeler. It’s not natural for her to mull, brood or deliberate over her emotional processes. Instead, what comes to her most naturally is action. She will go, ask and obtain. That is _her_ style.

And as of current, she wants answers. Answers for his lies. Answers for his past. Answers for his feelings.

And she _will_ get it.

“No,” says Ingrid. “I think I’ll pass.”

“Oh?” Mercedes blinks. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.” Ingrid nods. “I want answers.”

“I see,” Mercedes replies. “So, you want to talk to Claude, then?”

The way she phrases it suggests a desire for reconciliation. Ingrid snarls. It couldn’t be further from the truth. She desires _truth,_ not platitudes, apologies and sappy stories. The truth, and that is all.

“Only to get answers.”

“I see.” Mercedes nods, curling a lock around her finger. Then, she glances over to Ingrid, lips parting. “If I may…”

“Yes?”

“Would you like any advice?” she says. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but I do think it might be a good idea to talk through some of your thoughts.”

“You’re not being presumptuous at all.” Ingrid offers a smile that she hopes appears encouraging. It’s a difficult action, she’s so exhausted, after all. But she tries. “In fact, I welcome it. You _are_ a professional, after all.”

“Oh, but I would prefer to not speak as a professional,” says Mercedes, as she laughs softly. Laughter fading, her smile retains the softness of her previous gesture. “I’d rather speak as a friend.”

A friend. There it is again and, well, Ingrid almost believes it. Almost. It’s a vulnerable situation, after all, so Mercedes is probably baring her heart out more than usual. Because, well, how would she ever truly consider her a friend? She was never truly kind to her, after all. Not cruel. Still, she kept her distance. Goddess, she’s such a— whatever. 

“Go ahead then,” says Ingrid. “I think I’ll need a second opinion.”

“Thank you. It’s very heartwarming to hear that you respect my opinion,” says Mercedes, squeezing her hand. Then, giving a soft, long sigh with quirked lips, she begins. “So, is the presumption that you’re not interested in reconciliation correct?”

“I—” Ingrid gulps. She nods. “I would say so.”

“You seem a bit hesitant.”

“I…” She sighs. “I don’t want to be hesitant.”

“I can understand that,” says Mercedes, and the affirmation is a comfort. “After all, this is somebody who you’re in a serious committed relationship with, after all. Even after such a breach of trust, it’s difficult to reconsider your stance on such a heavy emotional investment.”

Lips bitten, Ingrid nods. “Right.”

“Though, if I may ask…?”

“Yes?”

“How long have you two been in a relationship?”

“Oh, um…” Ingrid looks up, accessing her memory bank. “Officially, last Horsebow moon. Well, that’s on a technicality, though.”

“A technicality? What do you mean by that?”

“Well, um.” Ingrid sighs. She’s really going to tell her this, isn’t she? Oh well. “I got really drunk one night and set our relationship status as ‘dating’. We weren’t seeing each other then, though. It was more…”

“Sex?”

“That’s—” True. “—blunt.”

“ _Is_ it true?”

“It’s—” Yeah. It’s true. Ugh. “—true.”

Mercedes chuckles. “I imagine that must’ve been quite embarrassing.”

It was, and now she’s reliving it. Oh well, whatever, who cares at this point. 

“It gets worse. My aunt — and boss — saw it, and well…” Ingrid feels her face flush. Ugh, this is so embarrassing. “I panicked. I didn’t want her knowing about the, um,” Ingrid pauses, “casual sex...” she continues, “So, to keep up the act, I just had to leave it there. And he thought it was funny, so it was fine.”

“I see. So you were casually seeing each other?”

“Very, very casually,” Ingrid says. “I didn’t see him for a few months after that. He went away for work.”

“Then?”

“Then he came back,” says Ingrid, voice growing hush. “And then it became more serious.”

_“What do you think,” he says, smile on his lips. “About making Judith a very happy camper?”_

_“Beg pardon?”_

_“Shall I phrase it in layman’s terms, my dear plebeian?”_

_Rolling her eyes, she throws a pillow at him. “Oh, shush.”_

_He laughs._

_“Getting back to the topic at hand, however, what about—” He_ _reaches for her hand, intertwining their fingers, “—you and me?”_

“But...” Mercedes pauses. “Not serious enough to talk about the past?”

Bringing her knees closer to her chest, heart stinging, _pang, pang, pang,_ Ingrid whispers, “...Apparently not.”

“...I see.” Mercedes sighs through her nose, bringing her own knees together. “Say, Ingrid?”

“Mm?”

“Can I offer my impressions?”

“Sure.”

“Thank you,” says Mercedes. “So kind.”

Ingrid huffs a weak laugh. Says her.

“Now where to start...hm.” Mercedes hums, before turning to face Ingrid fully, holding both of her hands. “From what I’m hearing, it gives me the impression that the foundation of trust and communication that is fundamental to a relationship wasn’t built as strongly as it might’ve been.” 

Ingrid nods, considering her words.

“Claude, of course, was most egregious in this manner. He lied and withheld information. And, I know what I’m about to say is going to be a bit insensitive, but...it seems like you didn’t tell him much about you either.”

“What do you mean?”

Mercedes strokes Ingrid’s palm with her thumb. “About your trauma regarding Duscur.”

Oh. Right.

“I’m not surprised that he didn’t know the details about it. I’m just surprised you never brought it up with him, that’s all,” says Mercedes. “He was completely in the dark, right?”

“...Yes.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I’m—” Ingrid gulps. “I’m not sure. I don’t really like talking about it with people who weren’t there.”

“I can understand that.” Mercedes nods. “Say, do you not talk much about your feelings?”

“Not really. Actually, my brother said I internalise a lot,” Ingrid says, and what did Gabe say after that? Oh, right. “And that if I don’t do anything about it I’ll eventually shrivel up like a pricked balloon.”

Mercedes laughs, shoulders rising, eyes crinkling. “Oh goodness, that doesn’t sound fun, does it!”

She laughs also. “No, no it doesn’t—” Ingrid pauses, as she hears a _ping._ Her phone. “Sorry, I just need to check.”

“No worries.”

Inrgid pulls out her phone, checking her homescreen and oh. Oh.

“...Ah,” Mercedes mutters. “He went home, did he? I can hardly blame him, I suppose.”

Claude  
  
Hey, just wanted to let you know that I left early. Any questions you have, I’ll answer  
  
In person, though, as we both know that texting isn’t conducive to having a productive conversation.   
  
I’ll be back at the hotel. Feel free to rest up over there or at another friend's house.   
  
See you another time  
  


Him, too? He thinks she needs to rest?

Unbelievable. Does he even know who she is?

Then again, she hardly knows him either, does she? Because apparently he’s a prince. A fucker of friends. A fucking asshole. A prince who fucked her friend and is a fucking asshole. Bastard. Who knows, he might even be a literal one!

...That was mean, but whatever.

Purse in hand, Ingrid shoots up from the floor. Mercedes joins her, and she feels her hands brushing the back of her shirt. Ingrid looks over and smiles.

“Thank you. For everything. I really can’t begin to express how much I appreciate what you did.”

“Not at all. You gave me a nugget of wisdom in return, after all.” Mercedes laughs, resting her an arm on each of Ingrid’s shoulders. “Are you going now?”

“Yes.”

“Will you have someone drive you?”

“No, I’ll take the bus.”

“Oh, Ingrid.” Mercedes sighs deeply, as she sways side to side, hands still on Ingrid’s shoulders. “You realise that Sylvain will kick up such a fuss, don’t you?”

“...True.” Ingrid sighs. “I’ll call a taxi, then.” Ugh. Her wallet.

Mercedes chuckles, returning her arms to her sides. “He’ll probably offer to pay.”

“He’ll _offer,_ ” says Ingrid, with a huff. “And that’s as far as he’ll get, trust me.”

“You’re so tough on him. Let him spoil you a little.”

Ingrid scoffs. “What? No.”

Mercedes sighs, shoulders dropping. “Okay…”

Weird.

Anyway, she has to go now, she has to go confront _him_ and— Ingrid turns on her heel, but she is pulled back by a slight tug.

“Can I just say one more thing, Ingrid?” asks Mercedes.

Ingrid smiles, but her feet tap. “Of course.”

“‘Don’t.’”

Ingrid mutters, “Pardon?”

“Don’t endure anything anymore. Don’t take it. Don’t allow yourself to suffer in silence,” Mercedes continues, eyes boring into hers, with an intensity she’s never seen before. “Be loud. Be true. Be you.” A blinding smile. “That’s all.”

Be loud. Be true. Be you.

Ingrid considers herself as someone who has a good gut instinct.

And her instinct is telling her that she will never forget these words.

“...Mercedes,” Ingrid begins, and no, Ingrid, don’t back out of this. Be loud. Be true. Be you. “Can I say one more thing to you too?”

“Of course you may.”

“I’m sorry.”

Mercedes pauses. “For?”

“For...for—” For hating you, for envying you, for demonising you, for idealising you, for— “For hati—”

“—I know, Ingrid.”

Ingrid’s heart catches in her throat. What?

“Or rather, I knew,” Mercedes corrects, lips tugged in a small smile, eyes looking to the side. She reunites her gaze and continues, “I knew, and I’m sorry.”

She knew. She— she knew? 

“I should’ve talked to you about it,” says Mercedes, and for some reason, her voice is husky, harsh, not at all her sweet lilt. “And I didn’t. I’m so sorry, Ingrid. I’m so sorry.”

She knew. She knew all this time, and it’s humiliating; she thought she hid it so well. Still, that doesn’t mean a damn thing. Ingrid is still the guilty party. She’s still in the wrong. And yet, why—

“Please don’t cry,” says Ingrid, and her voice shakes, arms trembling as she brings Mercedes into her arms. “Why are you crying? It’s not your fault. It’s mine.”

“Oh, no, no, it’s not. Though, I really should stop crying. I shouldn’t be the one whose—”

“—You can cry. Of course you can.”

“Oh, okay,” Mercedes laughs shakily but ever so sweetly, hands cupping Ingrid’s cheeks. “Let’s cry together, then.”

Ingrid doesn’t like crying. She hates it, even. The vulnerability. The drooping snot and the taste of salty tears. The lethargy.

Even so, she allows herself to cry, just a little longer.

After all, she should keep her friend company, right?

* * *

Heels can go burn in Ailell.

Heels, heels, heels. Pretty little things that define the oft quoted phrase , ‘beauty is pain’, and how it infuriates her so. Now, if she had the time, she would rant about impossible beauty standards and the commercialisation of human suffering, but alas, but she doesn’t have time and it’s because of these _damn_ heels.

These heels, which care little for her and her sense of practicality and punctuality. These heels, which don’t care at all, for that matter! And this specific heel strap is rebelling out of _spite._ Yes, an inanimate object: spiting her. A strange proclamation, no doubt, but stranger things have happened tonight, have they not?

Strange things that she needs to go confront right now, because she is a woman of action, damn it, as well as one of practicality and punctuality. So, she needs to go, get on the cab, and go confront _him,_ and not be stuck on this goddess forsaken heel strap which just won’t close, because she needs to confront _him,_ damn it _—_

“You sure about this?”

Wrong ‘him’. 

Though, an almost equally exhausting ‘him’, and a ‘him’ who she appreciates, but one that she can’t afford to spend time on. She can’t spend time on anything, damn you, heel, and anyone who’s not _him._ She’s busy.

Sitting on the doorway ledge, Ingrid balances some weight on one hand, the other still tugging, pulling and poking at the hole in the stiletto strap. Why won’t it budge, damn it? Ugh. “Yes, Sylvain?”

He doesn’t reply, and so she pays him no mind. Tug, pull and poke. Oh, come on, just— damn it! Wasn’t this supposed to be good quality or whatever? Otherwise, how could anyone justify the price? Sure, it’s a Valentine heel, but what does it matter when you can’t even wear it properly? Hilda, please, consider practicality over aesthetic, for once—

“...Here.” Sylvain’s low, husky whisper by her ear, and his hands and feet enter her periphery, as he joins her on the ledge. “Done.”

Ingrid gasps, turning to face him. “What? How?”

His lip tug upwards to form a small smile. “You know me,” he says. “I’ve had a lot of practice with women’s clothing items. Of all sorts.”

Ugh. Now, if her eyes hadn’t had such a workout, she’d roll her eyes. But they have; a marathon with burpees, pushups and crunches at every checkpoint. Checkpoints with no water station, at that. Though, now that she thinks about it, she probably should've accepted Dedue’s offer of a third glass of water, but she didn’t, and still doesn’t, have the time.

And so, Ingrid wipes the lint off of her skirt, standing up with her heels finally donned.

“Right, well, thank you.” Ingrid rolls her shoulder, adjusting her purse. Time to go. To confront _him._ “I’ll be going then—”

“—Please,” Sylvain whispers, and it is one that catches her attention more than any shout or plea. A whisper, that is accompanied by a tug at her wrist. She looks back, and he looks so— “Answer the question.”

The question.

The question, of whether she’s sure or not.

The question, where she thinks she knows the answer.

“Yes,” Ingrid replies. “I’m sure.”

Sylvain sighs, rubbing his nape. He gives her a look that tells her that he already knew her answer, but had hoped for otherwise. Unfortunately, Ingrid is not one for surprises, like he is. She is, as ever, predictable as a soap opera plot twist.

“Look, I really think you should stay the night,” says Sylvain, and his voice is a little more forceful, a little stronger. Still, it is not convincing, lacking his usual smooth-talker charm. “You should rest.”

“I don’t have time for that, Sylvain.”

“Yeah, you do.”

“I really don’t.” Ingrid sighs as she reaches for the doorknob. “I’m sorry, Sylvain, but I really need to—”

“—I hate him.”

Her hand freezes, mid-twist.

The whisper is harsh.

It is not at all soft, low or reticent as it was before. Instead, it is pure in its conveyance of meaning, and there is an honesty to it that surprises her, a rawness that intrigues her and an intensity that thrills her. The tug, also, that was once suggestive, implicit and pleading, twists into something else entirely foreign, as his fingers wrap around her wrist, index meeting thumb, with his nails digging into her skin, ever so slightly.

The touch burns her skin and dries her lips.

“I really fucking hate him, Ingrid.” Sylvain is standing now, face-to-face with her, his eyes meeting hers and even in his gaze, there is something different about it. A truthful intensity. But why? “From the very start.”

The admission earns a surprised and thoughtless: “What?” Because, what? That’s, well, that’s news to her. “You do?”

Sylvain huffs, shrugging and rolling his shoulders, eyes looking over to Dedue’s shoeshelf. His lips tug at the corners to make a small grin. A bitter one.

“Yeah,” he says. “Ever since I learned of his existence.”

Ingrid stares.

And she stares.

Hard.

Then, she scoffs. “What, how can you hate someone you didn’t even know—”

“—He made you cry, Ingrid.”

“That’s not what I—”

“—He lied to you. He betrayed your trust. He did all of these things, so please—” Sylvain’s shoulders drop, the small grin fallen from his lips and contorted into a frown. His voice is scratchy, husky and cracked, and then his eyes return to hers and he says, ”Don’t forget that.”

‘Don’t forget that’, he says. So earnestly, so pleadingly, so desperately that she nearly ignores the implied insult. Nearly.

“I’m not going to,” Ingrid replies, arms folded over her chest, eyes narrowing to form a glare. “I’m the one who was affronted. Why would I ‘forget’, as you seem to think that I will?”

“Because you forgive people too easily.”

“I do not.”

“Let me clarify, then.” Sylvain’s gaze travels down to his feet, and his hand adjusts the strap of his watch. “You forgive the people you love too easily.”

That is—! Honestly? Very true. Though, coming from his mouth, it is entirely too ironic. After all, has he not been the person who has benefited most from her generosity? Yet now, he dare lecture her on it. Unbelievable.

“What, like you?”

Sylvain pauses, blinking as he looks at her. Then, his parted lips twist into a small smile, eyes creased, brow wrinkled. “Yeah,” he replies. “Like me.”

Well. At least he acknowledges it. Which was a bit unexpected, she had thought that he’d twist the narrative, as he has attempted so many times in last.

There’s even a lull of conversation, suggestive of his guilt. On her part, though, it’s disinterest because she needs to go. No time can be wasted. She has to go. To _him._

“Right,” Ingrid says, turning on her heel, hand reaching for the doorknob yet again. She begins to twist it. “Then, I’ll be—”

“—I’m sorry.”

Again, her hand freezes, and Ingrid releases the door knob.

“For what?”

“For so much.”

Another empty lull, but one that is denser. Perhaps desner from his heavier sense of guilt, and her reluctant curiosity because she has to go, yes, but what does he mean by ‘for so much?’

“Are you going to clarify that or—”

“I’m sorry, because it’s not about me, or even him,” says Sylvain. “It’s not about that. It’s not even my right, or his.”

“Who, then?”

“You.” His reply is quick. Intense. Multifaceted. “Always.”

And Ingrid would ponder the meaning behind his words, but the physical effect of his words distract her from any potential mental processing. Because as she stares back into his burning amber eyes, watching as his lips part as if he wants to say more (and she wants to know what he wants to say, and she wants to tell him that she—) but her throat is so parched, and so she gulps down a double-sized pebble of doubt and hope, and she stares because did he just say what she always wanted—

“I’m sorry for hurting you.”

Ingrid snaps back into focus.

“I’m sorry for lying to you. I’m sorry for betraying your trust, and not being forthright,” Sylvain says, and he looks like a guilty child. In fact, he looks like how he should’ve when he stole her cookies, on this very day, so many years ago. He’s learning how to cope with guilt properly, it seems. “Even though you deserve none of these things. Even though you deserve the very opposite.”

“...Do you want me to forgive you or something?” Ingrid says, as if she hasn’t already forgiven him. She has, she always does, and she hates that she always will. Still, she asks anyway because she’s curious. Her prediction is that he’ll say yes, but he hasn’t ceased with the surprises today, so maybe—

“No.” His reply is quick, and oh. She got it wrong again. Him, wrong again. Somehow, it makes her heart sink. “I want your happiness.”

Her sunken heart skips a beat and she feels her skin flush, which is just silly. It’s just Sylvain. Of course he’d want for her to be happy — she wants that for him, too. As with Dimitri, as with Felix, as with any of her friends. With any of her loved ones. 

“Oh, I see. Thank you,” says Ingrid, and she parts her lips to repeat the sentiment expressed in her thoughts, that she, too, wants him to be happy and—

“More than anything.”

 _Thud, thud, thud_. Three quickened heart beats, and her skin is burning, which is absolutely ridiculous. He cares for her, that’s all. That’s it. He always has. He cares a lot, for many people, not just for her, but for Felix, Dimitri and— and Mercedes. It’s nothing. It’s just how he is.

“...Oh.” Ingrid nods, eyes glancing to the side. Her tongue flickers across her upper lip. Still, her lips are so chapped. “Alright.”

“...Yeah,” he says, and there’s a slight crack to it. She hears him clear his throat. “Yeah.”

Ingrid spares Sylvain a glance. His eyes fixed to the side, hands fiddling with his fingers; tugging, smoothing, rubbing. His tongue rolls around his cheek, and he glimpses her way, then when he meets her gaze, it’s back to whatever he’s staring at.

Why? It’s just— it’s just her. It’s just Ingrid.

It’s just her.

“So…” Sylvain begins, stretching out the vowel. He shrugs with a small smile on his lips. “I’ll see you around, I guess?”

“Right,” Ingrid replies, voice husher than intended. Clearing her throat, she reaches for the door knob. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

“Tomorrow? Hold on!” Sylvain grabs her shoulder, and she looks over, raising a brow. He blinks at her, lashes fluttering, and why is it that men have such long lashes? “That’s still happening?”

“Of course it is,” Ingrid replies, puffing her chest. “You really think I’m letting you go, scott-free?”

“Well, no. It’s just that, Ingrid, you should really rest—”

“—I’m leaving for Galatea soon.” Sighing, Ingrid twists the door knob, finally opening the door. Finally! Now, the cab is…? “I don’t have time to let it fester. Whatever it is you need to say, I want it over and done with, okay? I’m exhausted.”

“Yeah, well, which is why you should—”

“—Sylvain.” She’s warning him, and he knows it. “Please, just leave it.”

“Fine, fine,” he says, sighing. “I’ll consider it.”

If Ingrid had the mental energy and time, she’d engage. But not now; she needs to save that for another. Exactly. For _him._ That lying, manipulative, two-faced— oh, and there’s her taxi! Good, now to just—

“Ingrid, one more thing?”

“Goddess, make it quick, please,” Ingrid says, huffing as she looks out the gap of the door. “My taxi is here.”

“Right, sorry. Well, uh, yeah. The thing is that—”

“Sylvain, I meant it when I said make it quick.”

“I’m sorry for breaking our promise.”

Ingrid stills. Then, she looks back to face him again.

“About never making you cry ever again. I’m sorry about that most of all, but, well,” Sylvain pauses with a long, deep sigh. He seeks her eyes again, offering a small smile. “I knew it’d hurt the most to say, and acknowledge, so I saved it for last.”

The promise. Right. That promise. That promise, which he holds so dear to his heart. That promise, which he seems to believe would absolve any other sin of his, so long as he kept this one dear and true.

That promise he made, nine years ago, when he was at death’s door.

“...It’s fine,” says Ingrid. “You’ve done pretty well, after all.”

“A nine year streak!” Sylvain boasts, his small smile turning boyish, cheeky and proud. It falls with his next words, however. “That I broke today. Which feels pretty damn shitty, to be honest.”

To his knowledge, yes. Today has been the first time he’s made her cry in nine years. Quite impressive.

To her knowledge, however?

He broke it much earlier.

But doesn’t need to know that, not when he looks so proud of himself. So happy with his achievement.

And, as they say, ‘Ignorance is bliss’.

Ugh. She hates that phrase, but least it has more truth to it than ‘beauty is pain’.

“See you tomorrow, Sylvain.”

“We’ll see about that.”

She spares an eye roll for that. “Whatever, bye.”

“Oh, wait, Ingrid—”

Ingrid shuts the door, and still, her ears manage to catch the muffled end of his sentence:

‘Don’t forget.’

She won’t.

She _won’t.  
_

* * *

The Grand Fhirdiad Hotel is a glorious spectacle.

Chandeliers, with gold trimmings, crystal prisms and diamonds engraved in delicate designs, hanging on every floor, in every room, everywhere. Crimson carpets with frilly tussles sprawled in every corner, every inch, every nook, every cranny, everywhere. Marble flooring, marble statues, marble pillars, most things are marble and it is everywhere _,_ and all of these contribute to the grandness of the ‘Grand’ Fhirdiad Hotel.

It is not only the material aspects of the hotel, however, which contribute to its namesake. It is its culture, its community, its staff.

The front desk, who tolerate all the ridiculous rich people tantrums with such dazzling smiles and angelic countenances, that it warms even their cold stone, blood money pumped, hearts. How? How do they do that? They should be the ones in charge. They could gently persuade anyone to do anything. Which, on second thought, might not be the greatest. Still, how admirable.

The valets, who park the luxury vehicles of the hotel clientele; vintage icons, million-dollar sports cars (ugh, she’s seen those darn manwhore cars too many times), rented limousines, used in place of public transport, because that’s just how ridiculous rich people can get. Were they to make even but a scratch or, goddess forbid, a _dent,_ how the ridiculously rich would destroy them. Yet, they persist, they stand strong, they are more iconic than the cars they drive.

The chefs. The. _Chefs._ Oh _goddess,_ the chefs, with their caviar, taken from the Edmund seaside, their lobster fished from the Rhodos Coast, their macarons baked by Morfis magic, their saffron plucked from Kupalan fields, their truffles sourced from the Sealed Forest and— anyway.

The Grand Fhirdiad Hotel is a spectacle, and she will never forget the first time she experienced it. Oh, how the carpets felt on her shoes, how the chandeliers shined upon her friends and how, when she slipped on Dimitri’s untied shoelace, she chipped her tooth on a marble pillar (it was fine, it was a baby tooth).

She has not forgotten anything. Not even her room number: ‘499’. Her room, which she stands before her today, as a woman of twenty-eight years, and not as a girl of ten.

Yes. She has not forgotten. 

Of how to unlock the door with the excessively complicated card key system.

Of how the door creaks, just a little, when she opens the door.

And she remembers, the secret closet by the entryway, where her father hung his coats, and where she now hangs hers.

_“...tensions...between...Almyra….have reached....”_

Nor the sounds of the T.V, as it echoes through the hallway, the light of the machine trickling through the unlit space.

_“...an...all...high...with allegations of…”_

She has not forgotten the sight of _him,_ lounging about the leather sofa, eyes on the T.V, legs propped up on the coffee table, a drink in his hands.

_“...On this matter, the Adrestrian Minister of Foreign Affairs, Minister Gerth, spoke…”_

She has not forgotten how he looks, when he turns his head over his shoulder, offering her his ambassadorial smile, so casual, so loose, so _fake_.

_“‘We will tolerate neither Almyra’s aggression or Leicester’s lies.’”_

“...Hey,” Claude says, placing his glass of whiskey atop the coffee table. “You probably have a lot of questions for me, huh?”

She has not forgotten.

So, she won’t do it.

She won’t endure it.

She won’t take it.

For _herself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to nicole_writes for Ingrid's brothers' names!
> 
> Also, woah, so I guess I took an accidental hiatus?? Not gonna lie, it was a combination of laziness and just struggling with this chapter. I think it's because this chapter wasn't even meant to exist, so it threw a wrench in my plans. And YA KNOW WHAT?!?! THE PARTY ARC WAS ONLY MEANT TO BE TWO FCKN CHAPTERS!!! FCK!!! I swear, we'll be moving onto the next arc after the next chapter. And boy oh boy. The arc after the Party Arc? I am extremely excited to write about. And I can't believe I've spawned a name for an arc, jesus, this whole thing was meant to be 7 chapters, 30,000 words, SO!!! WHAT HAPPENED!!
> 
> Now, to prevent burnout, I will schedule the next update in around 3 weeks time. And yep, it is the Claude Confrontation Chapter! FINALLY!! FCKN FINALLY!! Additionally, I'm planning to write some more one-shots. Probably some Sylvgrid, Dimileth and maybe Netteflix. So, if you'd like to keep an eye out for those fics, feel free to subscribe to my profile!
> 
> (...I also have a smut pseud....it's emiwaka69....it may finally have some use soon...LOOK I DUNNO––)
> 
> Again, my apologies for the wait! Let me reassure you, however, that I am never dropping this fic. Well, unless something incredibly extreme happens, but let's not jinx me, hm? After all, if I don't finish CWV, then I sure as hell don't get to write the planned Felannie companion fic, the Dimileth prequel and the gazillion one-shot ideas ((sylvgrid prequels, essentially)) that I have planned for you guys.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed!!
> 
> AND YA KNOW I EAT UP COMMENTS LIKE BREAKFAST SO PLEASE FEEL FREE TO YELL AT ME!! I ENJOY MORE THAN I ENJOY EATING FRIED CHICKEN!!! AND I REALLY LIKE FRIED CHICKEN!!!!
> 
> EDIT:
> 
> I CANT BELIEVE I FORGOT!! I COMMISSIONED A PROFESSIONAL TO MAKE A BOOK COVER!!! CHECK OUT CHAPTER 1 IT’S THERE!! YAAAAY!!
> 
> (will link person when I wake up v tired right now HAHAHA)
> 
> Update: 19/10/2020
> 
> Hey ya'll! I'm really busy with university right now because it's nearing end of term. Hence why it's taking so long for the next chapter to come out. I'm really hoping to have the next chapter out by the end of this month. I'd hate to go a month without updating, ugh...Good news though! University will end in early November, so I'll be able to update more consistently again. Very hyped for that! Also, I'm also currently writing some Sylvgrid side projects! It’ll be awhile since they’ll be unveiled — you know me I can only write chonky chonks LOL.
> 
> Update 30/10/2020:
> 
> Uni’s nearly over!!! Once it is, it’s back to CWV baby. Thank you guys so much for your patience!
> 
> Update: 8/11/2020
> 
> Happy to announce that now that uni is over, I have begun work on CWV! Expect an update in around...a week and a half? WE’RE NEARLY BACK YOU GUYS I AM SO HAPPY!


	11. Will She Do It? Will He Take It? Will They Endure It? But For Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ON THE LAST EPISODE OF CHAMPAGNE, WINE AND VODKA...
> 
> lol wut even happened it's been too long can't even remember
> 
> SO HAVE THIS INSTEAD FOLKS
> 
> [](https://imgflip.com/i/4mqofm)  
> 
> 
> [](https://imgflip.com/memegenerator)  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings Below:

Claude von Riegan is a diplomat.

It’s a career that suits him well enough, he supposes. Much better than playing prince, back in the courts of his homeland. Though, he supposes his duties would have been very much the same. Signing cheques, shaking hands with ‘important’ people (but is it truly possible to quantify the importance of a fellow human being?), and being wined and dined by those who'd rather kill him than be billed by him.

Still, he likes people. Likes getting to know them, what makes them tick, their personality plot twists that run contrary to his expectations, and whether they prefer Leicester Cortania to Dagdan coffee. Piecing together each sculpted edge, which are sometimes worn or even torn, and figuring them out like a puzzle. And puzzles are fun. He likes puzzles. Games in general. Chess in particular.

Oh, chess. Chess, chess, chess. He loves chess: the patience required, the measuring of the opponent, the technique necessary to protect the Queen and to save as many pawns as he can, because he likes his pawns. They’re worth the struggle. But sometimes, the games are so fun that he fumbles a little, gets too excitable, then consequently a little bit too cautious, but too invested, and then everything becomes all too much. He makes mistakes; chips the already worn and torn puzzle pieces, and now they no longer fit. His prized rooks and knights are mishandled, neglected, et cetera, and they’re taken away by the enemy. Loses the Queen. And it’s over. She’s gone. They’re gone. Never to be found, ever again. Ever again.

But sometimes, miracles occur, and they return from the enemy’s grasp. They return, however, for an unexpected reason. For it is neither for a welcoming nor a homecoming that they return. No. Instead, they have returned for a reckoning, fury in their eyes. Their breath, set to a semi-controlled but ultimately chaotic staccato, quickens his own heart, that is beating in legato.

That is how his Knight returns to him.

“...So,” Claude begins, heart in his throat, and he swallows it down with another swig of whisky as he stands. Legato, legato, do go against the staccato. “As I was saying, any questions that you have, I’ll—”

A thud. Clatters. His eyes zoom to Ingrid, his Knight — she threw her purse to the wall; the purse he bought to replace her tacky thirdhand thrift store faux leather handbag. Her coat —Chesterfield and _“um, okay, this is way too fancy for me”—_ goes next. Ah. Bought that one for her, too.

Ingrid’s eyes are on him. Fixed. Steady.

“Sit down.” Ingrid juts her chin at the couch. “There.”

Ah. So that’s how it will be, then.

“Sure, I’ll—”

“—Shut up!” Ingrid yells. A beat. A whisper, “Shut up.”

Tongue rolling around his cheek, Claude glances to the ceiling. Now, now, now. To obey, or to defy? To allow her to steer, or to regain control of the 3025 Verdant-Moon Civic Hatchback? Let her crash, or do it himself? Hm. All good questions. The answers are, however, not arriving. A rather unfortunate combination.

“...I will also shut up, then—”

“I _said_ , Claude!” Ingrid shouts out, skin red, eyes red, soul red, showing teeth, yanking off her watch —simple in design, but: _“Oh goddess, why did you spend so much money on this?”_ — and throws it his way. Kindly, not to his face. Instead, there’s a small bang by his feet. He feels it, doesn’t see it though, because her blood-shot eyes won’t let him leave hers. He’s held hostage. By her— “Sit. Down. And. Shut. _Up.”_

He sits down and shuts up.

As she moves, he can’t see her, but he listens to her, feeling her presence when she marches across the room, heels sinking into the carpets — ‘MADE IN ALMYRA’ and _“Wow, each region has their own unique designs? That’s so beautiful!”—_ and he senses her as she arrives behind the head of the couch. She’s right behind him, torso above his head.

It’s an interesting strategy.

Claude’s eyes are on the TV and her eyes are on him. He feels it. It’s a physical sensation that makes his skin crawl, just a little, just a sliver, like a butter knife to the neck. Not deadly, but still. Caution-worthy.

“...Turn,” Ingrid whispers above him, and his skin crawls yet again, but just a bit more than just a little, a slither that makes him shiver. It’s a palette knife to his nape, and blood will be the paint, and scars, the brushstrokes. But what will the painting be like? “...the TV off.”

Ah. Right.

_“...tensions between the states are at a tipping point, with the Crown Prince of Almyra, Hashim—”_

_Click._

Good idea.

“Put away the magazines,” Ingrid demands, and this time, his skin doesn’t crawl. An example of evolutionary theory, he’s quick to adapt and adjust. Sensation desentisised. Hardly surprising — that’s usually how it is for him, anyway. He’s adaptable. Had to be. Meanwhile, she’s getting lax, now that she knows that he’ll obey. He's decent at that. Decent. Claude glimpses at the magazine, placed on the far edge of the coffee table. Now. How to…? “Stand up.”

He stands and puts away the magazines.

Then, she commands: “Sit back down.”

He sits back down.

“Empty the whisky.”

He empties the whisky—

“Not into your mouth.” A dull thud. She kicked the bottom of the couch. Reminder of her heels. “Into the trash can.”

Hm. Hmm. Now. He _would_ like to avoid death by heel, but does he _have_ to—

“I _said—”_

He empties his drink into the trash can because he has to.

One, two, thirty seconds pass.

Then, Ingrid speaks.

“This is how this is going to work.” Her voice is quieter now, and it’s not because of any change in her volume. She’s moved further away. Built distance. “You will speak when I ask you to, and only then. You will move when I ask you to, and only then.”

Hopefully, scratching at an itch is the exception to the rule. As well as sneezing. Because it is just him or is it _chilly?_

“You will answer whatever questions I have for you and you will not lie. You will tell the truth, and I _will_ know if you lie _—”_

Objection. After all, she didn’t notice before, did she? Though, to be fair to the offence, she still quite liked him back then. And that façade of his had not yet been shattered by the one and only, By—

“—and when you speak, you will not joke.” Ah, but focus, focus, this isn’t hocus focus. Don’t skip the Terms and Conditions, because this time there might actually be some sort of consequence. “You will not talk in a manner that is suggestive that this is something to be taken lightly. As if it’s theatre. Courtroom drama. As if you’re the accused and I’m the—”

Claude’s lips part, but he sucks in a breath, for naughty Claude’s instinctive quip of: “ _No roleplaying as ‘Your Honour’, then?”_ begs to be spoken. But spoken it is not, for he has some self-restraint. Some. Anyway, focus, focus. Whisky hazes, but focus, focus.

“—so nod your head if you agree to these terms.”

To nod! Or not to nod. That is the question.

Because, lord, he is a contrarian at heart, a diehard rebel, the teacher's devil. _“What if I don’t?”_ is what he’d like to try to say, but Ingrid’s still wearing her Hilda-brand haute couture high heels. Better be careful, then, because she can bash and batter grown ass men till they’re bloody and bruised. And while he does occasionally enjoy unadulterated female physicality, he has a distinct feeling that _this_ particular beating wouldn’t be all that pleasurable. She’s just _that_ good at pummeling assholes — even the perverted variety can’t take much pleasure.

So, nod his head it is.

“...My first question.”

And so it is that he nods his head again. Because what else is he supposed to do? Drum his fingers across his thighs? Tap his feet against the carpet? Press his bitten tongue against his set of teeth? Because, goddess, he’s already doing all that.

Who knew that being in trouble with your lawyer girlfriend was more nerve-wracking than that time you realised what you were drinking was not in fact really shit-tasting wine, but rather, all things considered, actually-not-that-bad-tasting rat poison. Not this guy. But damn her damnation, he should’ve washed the whiskey down anyway. Nerves don’t suit him. Less, less focus. Less is more, after all.

“...Are you really—” Ingrid starts, stops, sighs. She swears, “...Fuck, I can’t even believe that I’m...” Then, she groans a little, something irritable, groany, and he hears something like tapping. Nails? Nails. Then, another sigh, deeper but quieter. She’s further away. Good for her, great for him. Greater chance of dodging. “Are you really—” Another pause. Another sigh. Another clack of the nails before a click of the tongue. Then: “An Almyran prince?”

Yes.

Yes, he is.

Yet, his palate doesn’t shift to pronounce the beginning of the word, the /j/. His lips don’t part midway to produce the /ɛ/, air still trapped in his closed mouth. And his tongue doesn't press against his front set of teeth to hiss the finalé /s/.

Because he wishes he could say no.

Because that’s one of the only two things that he’s ever, ever wanted.

“Claude,” Ingrid begins, and the way she says his name is so familiar in how very unfamiliar it is. It takes him back to the time when he himself first tested that name, those sounds, that very same voiceless velar plosive (/k/), but which was followed by a wrangled /ɔ/, as habit demanded him to instead mouth— “Answer the question.”

But now’s not the time for nostalgia, or musings over linguistics or even regret — even if he truly wishes that he swung down that whisky like it would be his last drink.

It is time for truth.

“Well—” Well, well, well. How to word this? “Yes.”

Simple. She likes simple.

“Oh goddess, I can’t—” Ingrid whispers, whining a little, struggling, stressed. Probably chewing her lip. She does that often. “I can’t _believe_ this, I just—”

And ‘simple’ is everything that he isn’t. Because he’s complicated, a mixture of coincidental circumstances, which resulted in his birth, him, a statement to the world that he never got to consent to: _‘This child exists and you must learn to deal with it.’_ Except, they don’t want to deal with it. Instead, they try to shoo the complication away. Make it simpler. Oppress it, repress it, suppress it. Ignore it.

And his dear friend over here doesn’t like complicated. She likes simple. Even when she’s trying her darndest to see the gray, her lens gears towards black and white.

Should’ve been no surprise, then, that she was once one of ‘them’.

“And?” Ingrid asks. “And what _else_?”

Ingrid is now as impatient as she is expectant. Not a good combination for him.

“Answer the question _.”_

“I don’t quite understand the question,” Claude replies, and, ah. Probably should’ve bitten his cheek for a second longer before replying. The tension is starting to affect him; peeler, to his nape. Skin: the vegetable. Shivers. Not good. Take a breath. Focus on the toes. Toes to the feet. The sensation. The lack thereof. “Sorry. Could you be more specific?”

“...It’s fine,” she says, and the peeler is pulled away, no longer prepared to scrape. “I should’ve been more specific.”

She’s always been the guilty type.

“Thank you,” he says. “I appreciate—”

“—I didn’t say you could talk.”

As well as the resentful type. Peeler, back in place, set to skin. Shame.

“Tell me more about your circumstances,” Ingrid continues, and she’s behind him again. He can’t feel her breathing, but he can hear it. It’s an unsteady rhythm trying to be steady. He knows, because he’s the same. Toes, feet, thighs, legs, torso. Focus. “About your ‘being a prince’.”

“With pleasure,” says Claude, and he moves to cross his legs—

—but then she shouts, “Did I give you _permission_ to move?”

No. And neither has she given him permission to speak, either. Therefore, he does nothing. _Can’t_ do anything, except feel a reluctant bubble of irritation form in the lower echelons of his whisky-nurtured gut. Irritation irritates him. Doesn’t feel very nice. Focus, toes to torso, torso to the top of the head, hairs of head. Sensation, sensation, he breathes because she can’t forbid him from breathing. Probably. And, well, he’d fight back on that point. He might be a bit of a lying bastard, but capital punishment is just a bit much. Ingrid’s a woman of the law. Surely she believes in proportionate justice?

“Talk.”

“Right,” Claude says, and he breathes the word out. Needs to. Breathe in, breathe out. “Well, my mom’s from Leicester. Went to Almyra as an act of late onset, early twenties rebellion, met my dad who was in a similar state. Then they fell in love.” _‘You were born out of love, Khalid.’_ “Though, he was already married to around...three women? Polyamory’s legal over there, by the way. Anyway, they got hitched and Baby Claude debuted.”

Ingrid keeps quiet. He doesn’t know if that’s a good thing, but he can recognise an unspoken hint when he sees one:

_‘Go on.’_

He takes the hint.

“Born Prince Khalid of Almyra, thirteenth in line,” says Claude. Or, well, Khalid. But Claude suits him better now. “Oh, let me clarify, _was_ thirteenth in line. Past tense, because I gave up my rights to succession.”

“...What?”

Ah. Knew that’d capture her curiosity. Time to satisfy it.

“Long story short, it was because of my brothers,” says Claude. “For whatever reason, they were quite intimidated by me. Thought I’d become king, just because I was my father’s favourite.”

Another beat. This time, she doesn’t ask for clarification. But he knows what she wants, and who would he be to deny it?

“Basically, my brothers tried to kill me. Like your—” Claude bites his tongue. Not now. Later. Mayhaps won’t even be truly necessary. “Like, multiple times.”

A sharp intake of breath. Good. Attention and empathy. He can use that. Twist it. Manipulate it. But he won’t. He’s done enough of that, hasn’t he?

“...Why?” Ingrid whispers, and her voice, it’s like— well. As if she’s stabbing his heart, while trembling. Shaking. Crying. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Why, why, why. It’s an understandable, albeit predictable, question. The answer is neither of those.

“Don’t you think that’s something you should’ve mentioned?” Ingrid continues, and the palette knife is no more. Instead, it’s an Adrestrian army knife. One that is multitasking, magnifying, screwing, opening and cutting him all at once. “Don’t you think that’s horribly irresponsible? Selfish? A bit messed up?”

Breathe in, breath out. Let it pass.

“Because _I_ do,” Ingrid says, and she’s further away now. The tap is on. Grabbing a glass of water, maybe. Regardless, she’s in the kitchen. “I— I really can’t—” A thud. Glass against the counter. A few beats pass before she continues, “To not tell something so important to somebody who’s supposed to be important to you, that’s—” The tap is running again. This time, at full capacity. “—you’re so _fucking_ selfish!”

He’s calm. She’s not. But she needs to be and he needs to calm her before things get too heated. Uncontrollable. Uncomfortable.

“I agree,” Claude concedes. “I really am.”

“Fuck _you!_ ” Ingrid yells before she rushes for him. When she reaches him, landing right in between the coffee table and TV, Ingrid breathes. In, out, in out. She places the glass of water on the table. Stares him right in the eye. Glares. “At least defend yourself.”

_‘Because I can’t defend you,’_ is likely the meaning behind those words, and if he digs a little deeper, looks at her gulping throat, flickering gaze, et cetera, there’s maybe even a: _‘And that makes me uncomfortable. Everyone deserves a defence. So defend yourself.’_

The gray to her black and white.

“...In my defence, then,” Claude concedes again, but this time in the way that she wants. He reaches out for the glass of water she brought over. Kind to the cruelest of men. It’s in her job description. “I suppose trauma is one factor of my silence. With, you know...” He takes a sip. Places it back on the table. Then, looks back into her glare. “The multiple murder attempts and all that.”

“And this wouldn’t have impacted me?” says Ingrid. “You should've told me. If anything had happened to you, or if something happened to me _because_ of you, then I had the right to—”

“—They wouldn’t have ever touched you.”

“Why not?”

“They make sure not involve civilians in any assassination attempts.” Claude reaches out for the glass. “Much less those with Leicester citizenship. Too risky.”

Ingrid rolls her eyes. “Oh, says the country that’s been—”

“Going through a succession crisis, several natural disasters, a recession, sectarian conflict and—”

“I frankly don’t give a fuck about your shitty third world country!”

Claude’s fingers are wrapped around the glass. He doesn’t move it. He waits. One, two, three, and then he swirls it. Brings it back to his mouth. Rests his lips against the edge. Looks at Ingrid, and doesn’t speak or move. Looks. He waits.

Her eyes are flashing. Her fingers are curling and uncurling. Her shoulders are shaking. Her breath is muted. Then, her eyes widen, before she blinks away, chewing her lip, crossing her arms. Before, she was turned to him, straight forward. Now, she’s at an angle, curling in guilt.

Claude sips at his glass.

“...I didn’t mean it in that way,” Ingrid whispers.

“In what way did you mean it, then?” Claude asks, crossing his legs, resting his chin atop his closed fist. He smiles. Softly. “Oh, lover of all cultures?”

Her body freezes. His body relaxes. Her eyes widen. His eyes hone in. Her crossed arms tighten to hug herself, bringing a clenched fist to her mouth. His arms rest on the back of the couch. She bites something down. A sob. He swallows something down— water that he wishes was whisky, and something else.

But what he does know is that she’s feeling guilt— and he knows what to do with it. Twist it, manipulate it, use it, whenever you can. That is how one gains the upper hand and that is how one survives. The rest don’t do so well. Shame, but that’s life.

“...I’m—” Ingrid whispers, and he stares at her. He thinks. Should he dig in a little further? Bring up her flaws, her wrongs, her hypocrisy? Bring out the Queen right under the Knight’s watch? “I’m sorry.”

No.

“It’s fine.”

Instead, he’ll stand. Nothing much else to do, after all, considering she seems focused on charading as a clam. So, he grabs the glasses, of the whisky and the water, and moves to the kitchen. Refills them both. He drinks the whisky first to quench his thirst. Ah. Hits the spot. Burns his throat in the best way possible. Still, for the sake of his inevitable headache come tomorrow morning, he should—

“You once asked me what I would do if you were an Almyran princess.”

—drink more water.

Which, well, he’ll try to do — try to do as her eyes dig into his back, pleading for him to turn around and look back at her. And she rarely ever pleads, so one part of him wants to see what’ll happen if he doesn’t obey, and the other part wants to see what’ll happen if he does, but the whole part of him wants to see _both_ options acted out, because this is so rare, it’ll never happen again. Regardless, he needs to make a decision, lest Option #2 be the default via inaction. Which is just horribly irresponsible, really.

“Do you remember what I said to you?” says Ingrid.

He makes a decision.

“...That you’d still be my knight in shining armour,” says Claude.

He turns.

He turns and he sees her. Still where she was, in between the coffee table and the television, but she doesn’t look like she did before: intimidating, strong, a presence to behold. Instead, she looks intimidated, weak, a shrinking violet trying to masquerade as a blue rose.

Ingrid breathes before she speaks her next words, and he watches. Watches.

“Exactly.” Ingrid picks at her finger. Pauses. Considers. Then, she walks over to the back of the couch. Rests her body against it, curling her nails into the board. Keeps her gaze on him as she does so. “And I _meant_ those words.”

He knows. He knows that. She’s not like him, after all. She’s not a liar. Never. She means her words. Everything. Always.

“...I know,” says Claude, and he smiles. Softly. “I know you did.”

There’s something. Something in the air that changes when he says that, and he doesn’t quite know what it is. But he knows what he sees, what he feels, as her eyes widen, lips part, brows untangle, and for a moment. It’s all okay again.

But it’s for a moment. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Because she looks away from him, glaring at her shoes, then herself, knitting her brows, contorting her face and the knife is out again. A dull dagger.

“So if those brothers of yours,” Ingrid looks back up, throwing a pointed thumb over her shoulder to the TV, “ever tried to hurt you ever again,” the thumb returns, nail drags across her neck, “I would’ve hurt them so badly that they would never, ever tried to hurt you ever, ever again, and you,” thumb drops, pointer finger points to him, arousing strange feelings, “you would’ve never had to worry about them ever again because I would’ve protected you.”

_“I’ll protect you,” said she, seamless, smooth, soothing, while smiling, sweetly, softly, serenely. Stars above, Sothis’ silver star shining, swooning when she sung the song of her Scions —“...on the swift river’s drift, broken memories alight…”— and sought his soul, his strength, his secret. “My friend. My dear friend. Kha—”_

No.

Not now.

This isn’t— this isn’t the time. It wasn't the time then, and it isn’t the time now. It’s not. It’s not now.

But how many times did she use it today? And for _what?_ Did something happen—

“Claude?”

—not. Now.

“My apologies.” Claude rests his hand on the kitchen counter and flashes a smile. “Just feeling a little dizzy. I’d say it’s the whisky-wine double whammy. Packs quite the punch.”

Ingrid’s eyes drift. To her feet, to his lips, to the side and to his face.

“What were you thinking about?”

Claude takes a sip of water, shakes his head and lets out a sound of satisfaction when he’s done. He looks back at her with that same smile.

“Nothing much, really.”

“ _Who_ were you thinking about?”

He places the glass of water back into the sink. Eyes the whisky. Refills the whisky. Drinks the whiskey. Burns his throat. Then, he looks back at her, with an adjusted smile.

“You.”

Ingrid stares. Then, as she drops her gaze, she sighs. With the flick of her wrists, she bounces off the back of the couch, and moves to sit down in the middle. Ingrid reaches out for the remote, not to turn on the TV, but to fiddle with it. A distraction, perhaps.

“Do you _like_ lying?”

Now. That was a rather unkind suggestion. One that has an answer. It’s no. Of course it’s no. It has _never_ been yes. He's not a sociopath. He’s a humanitarian. A lover of mankind, he loves people. Individuals, too, of course. So, no. He doesn’t like lying. He’ll do it, sure. He likes _tricking_. Succeeding. But not lying. Not that.

“No.” Claude pops open another bottle. He pours. “Though, I wonder. Was that a rhetorical question?”

“Do you like lying to _me?”_

Ouch. That was— that was something. Something quite hurtful, he’ll admit. And he’s not one to be hurt easily. Much of his life has consisted of taking insults, which he always flipped so the aggressor would be the humiliated one. Not him. So, he could theoretically do so now. But he doesn’t. Because, ouch. Ow, ow, ow— and, ah. Damn. The brim of the glass is overflowing. Focus, focus. Don’t get distracted.

Claude closes the lid. Then, he grabs a rag, wipes the counter and throws the soggy cloth into the sink. He looks at Ingrid.

“...Now,” says Claude, one hand in his pocket, the other wrapped around his glass. “Not only am I perplexed as to whether that is a question that you actually want me to answer, I am also confused as to what that implies about me. You. Us.”

“Because you give me that impression.”

Hand set on the counter, Claude takes another swig of his whisky. Whirly, twirly, dizzy, whizzy, _burning._ Whisky hazes, but it’s fine, so long as it’s in check. Control yourself. Breathe, breathe, in, in, out, out.

Now. How to address such an accusation? His apparent transgressions?

“Do you like thinking that I won’t notice? Do you like thinking that I’m naive?” says Ingrid, unsteady. Pauses between clauses. A slight tremble. An exhale, shaky and shuddering. “Stupid?”

In, out, in, out, breathe, breathe. Whisky down onto the counter. Look her way.

“You’re not stupid.”

“Because I know you think that,” says Ingrid. “All because I haven’t traveled, read much high-brow literature, or have any hobbies that lie in the realm of academia.”

Hm. Now that’s an interesting thing to say. Or rather, a surprising thing to say, for he cannot ever recall thinking in such a manner. His interest in people is hardly determined by their hobbies. In fact, it is a facet of persona that he would consider to be non-descript. Unless it were a truly fascinating hobby, like that Albinean politician who raised butterflies and restored vintage railwork equipment in his spare time. Truly fascinating.

But no. It’s hardly any of those things. It’s someone's character. Their humanity. Take Ingrid, for example. Her hobbies are...well, horse-riding, except she doesn’t do that anymore. Working? Working. And that’s hardly interesting, but he still fell for her. A mixed bag of contradictions, Ingrid is _fascinating_. Cool yet hotheaded. Rational yet emotional. Accusatory yet defensive. Kind. Smart. Empathetic. Passionate.

All these things that are her is what clutched his heart and took him hostage.

Claude faces the sink and pours the whisky down the drain. He looks over his shoulder. “And what would those entail?”

“Linguistics. Classical music. Sociology.” Ingrid reaches for the tissue box on the coffee table. One of the few things she let be. “ _Your_ interests.”

“Mine?” Claude frowns as he drops the bottle into the trash, which clatters against the other bottles he’s had prior. Now. Even more of a peculiar statement. One he has absolutely no understanding of. He leans back against the counter, arms crossed, and shrugs. “Well, yes. They’re mine, but I never said that you had to share any of them.”

“You acted that way.”

“...Alright.” Claude rubs his temple. Sighs. Begins to walk her way, exits the kitchen. “Pardon my ignorance on the topic, but you’ll have to point out an instance of when I made you feel that way, because I don’t remember anything like that. That being said, I do recognise that I have a selective, if a bit tricky, memory. So if you tell me, I _will_ apologise for—”

“—Did she share your hobbies?”

Claude stops; his shoes stepped on something. He looks down. Under his slippers is her forlorn coat. Damn. Damn it. _Damn._

But breathe in, breathe out, it’s just a coat, and coats are replaceable. In, out, in, out. Coats _are_ replaceable.

“Firstly, I’ll be such a gentleman and answer your question.” Claude picks up the coat. Moves to the dining table. Hangs it on the Parsons chair, and returns to the kitchen. He needs more to drink. Water will do. As he refills the glass, he says, “No. She did not.”

“Really?”

“Indeedy.”

“I see.”

“Good that you see.”

“Let me tell you then—“ Ingrid starts up again, like the neighbour’s Bergliez Blitz Crimson RS motorbike, which revs, sputters and rattles on a sleepy Saturday morning. “What I don’t see is the how and the why you’re so obsessed with her like a fucking stalker even after all this—”

“—Secondly, I’ll be less of a gentleman and deny an answer to that particular question, as I don’t believe it has much to do with this particular topic—” Tip toe, toe to the tip, torso to head, keep in control, even if it’s really _fucking—_ “What I do believe, however, is the principle of ‘You Ask a Question and I Ask One Back’. So, when did I ever make you feel as if you had to—”

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Ingrid shoots up from the couch. Shaking her head, she’s grinning from ear to ear. Laughs too long for comfort. Drops the façade when he opens his mouth to speak. “She has everything to do with this.”

He really shouldn’t have emptied that goddamn bottle.

“There’s, what? A couple billion women in this world?” Ingrid walks over to him, arms laced over her chest. She meets him in the kitchen. Looks up. Smiles ever so politely, and asks, “And yet you knew exactly which woman I was referring to?”

Claude is a gentleman. So he smiles, even when her heel is digging into his slippers. It’s a light dig, anyway, and doesn’t actually hurt. A small threat. Using her feminine physicality in whatever way possible.

“Probabilities aside, let’s just say that context served as a key clue.”

“Oh?” Ingrid huffs a laugh, steps back and leans against the counter. She eyes his refilled glass of water. Looks back at him. Stares. “So you do agree that she is relevant to the context of our argument, then?”

Maintaining the smile, Claude leans back against his side of the counter. “I suppose I do.”

“Then _why_ —” Ingrid bounces off, rushing into his space, pointing a finger right against his throat, nail set like a scalpel, “—aren’t you acknowledging the fact that she has _everything_ to do with—”

“—My principle is still standing proud and tall.” Claude wraps his fingers around Ingrid’s wrist, feels her pulse set to staccato, and moves it down his neck, his collarbone, and lands it on his heart, _thud, thud, thud,_ thudding in legato. Legato. _Legato._ “So, please. First tell me about when I ever made you feel—”

“—Tell me about _her!”_ Ingrid throws his hand off her wrist and steps one, two, three steps back, stabbing a finger his way. “Her and you. Because that’s what _I_ want to know.”

“I will if we talk about—” Claude stills. He narrows his eyes. “Okay, what are you doing?”

Silverware of the finest quality clink and clatter as Ingrid rummages through her side of the drawers, and Claude watches, lips formed in a tight line. What is she—

“Tell me.”

—doing.

Well.

Well, well, well.

She’s pressing a goddamn knife against her neck.

Which is— wow. Just, wow. Such an unpleasant and uninteresting strategy that is so unbecoming of her. Her, Ingrid Brandl Galatea, who prides herself on her cool, on her intelligence, on her rationale. This? This is childish. This isn’t her. What she is, though, is a lawyer.

And lawyers love to bluff.

“You wouldn’t,” Claude hums, leaning back against the counter. “You’re really not the type.”

Ingrid’s grip on the knife tightens. “You think you know me?”

“...Well,” says Claude, eyes focused on the knife. Kitchen knife, to neck. Her neck. Would’ve preferred it against his, honestly. Would’ve made for a prettier picture. “I would say so, yes.”

“No. You just think that I’m so predictable.” Ingrid laughs, shaking her head. Her smile drops. Her hand does not. It— “And you know what? I’m going to prove you—”

“—Ingrid.”

She laughs again. “Yes?” Drops the smile again. “What?”

“Put down the knife.”

She presses it closer. “Tell me about her.”

“I will,” Claude whispers. “But put down that knife, Ingrid. You’ve had alcohol. You’ll bleed more than you think you will.”

Ingrid sneers. “Oh, so you _do_ care?”

“Of course I do. Please put down the knife.”

Closer. Closer than it should ever be.

“Talk.”

When it comes to threats, one should not give in so easily. One should remain calm. Negotiate. Manipulate. Et cetera.

But the sight of the woman whom you _do_ love pressing a knife deeper, deeper and deeper into the skin of her alcohol-flushed neck, while her breathing quickens, shortens, shakes, with trembling fingers digging into the handle, eyes staring into yours, — _‘Stop me’ —_ is not a sight conducive to logic.

And so, he gives in.

“We met at Garreg Mach.”

Breathe. In, out, in out. Toes to the tip of the shin, shin to the inside, to the skin, sensation, sensation, the lack thereof. Focus. Unfocus. Focus. Unfocus. Reminder: it is a bluff, but it’s bluff made with alcohol and anger in her system. Tread the line carefully. Be careful, be careful, because she’s not.

“...I already know that.” Ingrid gulps, throat bobbing, eyes blinking, and the knife inches away, just a little, but just enough to confirm: it’s a bluff. A bluff. “Talk about you and her.”

“I found her to be fascinating and she found me to be nostalgic.”

Her brows narrow, and the knife remains an inch away. Away, away, further away. Please.

“What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask her.”

“Her?” Knife not back in place but not careful, reckless as she shakes her head, rolling her eyes, sneering, rolling her neck. “Knowing her, she’ll just saying something equally fucking weird—”

“Breathe. You have a knife in your hand. It’s sharper than you think. You’ll bleed more than you think,” says Claude, and Ingrid’s teeth bare, skin flushing further, and he rushes to continue before it goes deeper, deeper, deeper, “and I know you hate me, but please don’t hurt yourself because of that. I’m not worth it. You’re worth more than that.”

Throat bobs as she gulps, as the knife gains distance, enough to see the line of her neck, unharmed and without blood. Another gulp, and the knife moves away, completely away from the neck, merely resting in her hand, resting by her hip.

Good. Good.

_Good._

“Keep talking.”

“I fell in love with her, but she fell for Dimitri,” says Claude. “So, it didn’t work out.”

Such simple words for such a complicated situation. But Ingrid likes simple, even though he’s nothing but. Even though Byleth is anything but. Even though Dimitri is anything but. Even though nothing about them is. Simplicity has its uses, though. It can make everything seem fine. Okay. Make it so that it can be shrugged off, as if it’s not something that requires immediate attention. To make complications simple is a process. It’s a process. But he did it. Because in this world, this world of theirs, where she loves another, and not—

“So when did you fuck her?”

Breathe.

_“Claude,” she says, smiling. “I like you. You’re so kind to me.”_

Breathe in.

_“Claude,” she says, laughing. “I’m ticklish. Don’t.”_

Breathe out.

_“Claude,” she says, frowning. “I don’t understand why. Why is he so...”_

In.

_“Claude,” she says, crying. “Why? Why does it hurt so much to not be loved?”_

Out.

Breathe in, breathe out. In, out. Sensation, sensation. Through nose, through mouth. Head to toe, toe to head.

_Breathe._

“...Now,” says Claude, lips formed in a tight smile, hand gripping the counter. “I really don’t think that you actually want to know—”

“Because you said that you were just friends,” yells Ingrid, throwing her hands in the air, hands which still have a goddamn _knife_ in it, “But _she_ said, and Byleth _never_ lies—”

“Ingrid, stop waving that knife around like you actually want to hurt yourself!” Claude yells, gritting his teeth, pounding the countertop with his fist. It fucking hurts. It _fucking_ hurts. But he’s fine. Just fine. “...You don’t. So stop. Just stop.”

Ingrid freezes. The knife remains above her, in the air. Then, as her widened eyes narrow, looking down to her shoes, tears well. Tears that then trail down her cheek, her chin, her neck, her collar. Turning her back to him, Ingrid buries her face in her hands, shoulders hunched, and sobs. And sobs. And sobs.

And that?

That _really_ fucking hurts.

Shoulders still shaking, Ingrid places the knife onto the counter and replaces it with paper towels. She blows her nose. Then, she goes onto her knees to try to throw it out, only to realise that’s on his side of the kitchen. With a shaky exhale, Ingrid crumples the towels in her hand, and stuffs it into her pockets.

Then, she turns back to face him.

“She said that you were in a sexual relationship.” Ingrid’s tears are no longer, although as if it were tattooed, the trails remain. He wishes he could get it removed. Would give his whole fortune if it meant it would disappear. “When?”

“We were friends.”

Ingrid bites her bottom lips, shaking her head. Her eyes well with water yet again.

“Don’t lie,” she says, voice crackly and husky. “Don’t.”

“You should have some water.”

“And now you’re misdirecting,” says Ingrid. She scoffs. “Unbelievable.”

Threading a hand through his now soaked hair, Claude breathes in, out. Careful. Careful honesty. Tread lightly.

“Look,” he says. “We _were_ friends—”

The hitch of her voice cracks, a sob, a cry, Ingrid closes her eyes, whispers, “Oh, goddess, do you even care about me—”

“With benefits.”

Slowly, her eyes flutter open. A tear trails down her cheek. He wishes he could wipe it away.

“Go on.”

“She was heartbroken. I comforted her. We had sex,” says Claude. “And then we kept having sex. And then I fell in love. And then we cut it off. That’s it. That’s all.”

“And you stopped having sex?”

_~~“Claude,” she says, moaning. “Don’t stop—”~~ _

Breathe in. Breathe out.

“Yes.”

“And you stopped being friends?”

_~~“Claude,” she says, not understanding. “Why can't we be—”~~_

Breathe in. Breathe out. 

“And we stopped being friends.”

“And you stopped loving her?”

_~~“Claude,” she says, sobbing. “I’m sorry—”~~ _

He nods. “And we—” He stops.

_~~“Claude,” she says, smiling. “Thank you. For everything.”~~ _

Another tear down her cheek rolls, rolls, rolls. Cheek to chin. Chin to neck. Damn it. _Damn it._

“And,” Ingrid whispers, “what?”

“...And.” Claude closes his eyes. Squeezes it tight. Opens it again. Wishes he could sow his eyes shut, block his ears with wax to forget it all. “I thought I did.”

A sob. He watches as she sobs. She sobs, silently, eyes shut, lips quivering, brows furrowed, breath hitched, uneven, shaky, and then she breathes in. Deep. In, out, in, out. Good girl. Voice set softly, in a whisper:

“You never loved—”

“Because of you.”

Her lips part. Eyes widen. Guard weakens.

His lips quirk. Eyes soften. Hand reaches out for hers.

Claude steps into her space, into her world, brushing a hand against her neck. Down her neck. Against her nape. Down her nape. Against her hand. Down her hand. Grabs her hand.

“...I thought I did,” Claude whispers, and he pulls her into his arms, tucking her under his chin. “Because of you.”

Because of her, he thought he could move on.

Because of her, he thought he could love again.

Because of her, he thought he could forget her.

“...Why is that in past tense?”

He thought he could.

Claude releases Ingrid from his arms and steps away. He looks down at her. She looks up at him.

“...You said you’d answer anything,” Ingrid whispers. She laughs quietly. Shakes her head slowly. “But you’re such a liar, to the very end.”

He is. He truly is.

That’s all he’ll ever be.

Ingrid exits the kitchen. She picks up her purse. Her coat by the dining chair. Puts both back on. Looks at the hanged mirror by the hallway entrance; adjusts her collar, her hair, her makeup. Red lipstick freshly donned.

She looks over her shoulder to him.

“She’ll never love you,” she says. “She loves Dimitri.”

Knife, twisting in his heart. A familiar pain. One he knows well.

“I know.”

“No, you don’t.”

He doesn’t?

He doesn’t know that Byleth will never love him? That she, in _her_ life, has and will only ever love Dimitri?

He doesn’t know, even though he is reminded each and every time he thinks of her? Of him? Of her with him?

He doesn’t know, despite the fact that she was his once, and life has never felt the same since?

That’s an ignorant claim. He does know. He really does.

He _does._

Claude walks out of the kitchen. Sits down on the Parsons chair. Runs a hand through his hair. Breathes through his nose. In, out, in, out. Calm. It’ll be over soon. Over.

“And why do you say that?”

“Because if you knew,” Ingrid begins, grip on purse tightening. “You wouldn’t have acted like you weren’t with me. Like you were with her. She has a fiance. You went to their engagement party. The purpose of which was to celebrate their union. And yet—”

Ingrid’s mouth shuts. She’s grinding her teeth. It’s a curious sight. One which prompts him.

“And yet I dared act like?”

“Like a fucking homewrecker.”

Ha. Interesting opinion. Though, a false one. After all, that would imply a certain degree of success. And succeed he did not.

Ingrid pulls out her phone. Reads something. Expression shifts slightly. Tongue flickers over her upper lip. Types something back. He wonders who the text was from. But who is he kidding? He knows. He _knows._

“Say,” Ingrid says, as she puts back her phone, looking back at him. “Why did you even go? Didn’t you think it’d hurt?”

“...Well. The pathetic thing is,” says Claude, huffing a breathy laugh. “I thought that I was—”

“Hurt _me.”_

Good question. The answer? Who even knows at this point.

“...I had multiple reasons for going,” says Claude. “You, for one—”

Ingrid scoffs. “Her, being the most important—”

“Most important being political advantage, networking and career advancement.”

“Oh, I fucking knew it.” Groaning, Ingrid presses her palm against her forehead. “Politicians. All you do is lie, lie, lie—”

“Shall I give you my greatest attempt at honesty, then?”

Hand dropping back to her side, Ingrid sighs. “You will utterly fail.”

“Yes. She _was_ a reason.” Claude hops off the chair, pocketing his hands as he stands. “Her, mainly. Her, being—” A pause, because what word does he choose? Can words even express it? What she is to him? “—important.”

Hardly enough, but it’ll have to do.

Ingrid stares at him. Assessing him, evaluating him, making a judgement on him.

“...How many years have you loved her?”

Such a question. A question with no easy answers.

“A millenia,” Claude replies. “Feels like it, anyway.”

Ingrid pulls at her necklace. “I wonder what that must feel like.”

“Pure agony.”

“Because you can’t have her?”

“...Because I can’t have her.” Claude nods. He sighs through his nose. Then, he smiles. “But hey. At least one of us can have someone.”

Ingrid frowns. “What do you mean?”

“You.”

The frown remains. “I don’t get your meaning.”

“You can have him,” says Claude, still smiling. “And he can have you.”

“Who—”

“Who did you think of?”

Ingrid’s frown drops as her lips part. Her fingers stop toying with her necklace as her hand falls to her side. Her brows loosen as her eyes widen.

So. She’s not completely hopeless.

“I—”

“I noticed.” Claude steps closer. Nothing much. One, two, three steps, when it would require ten to be in her space. “Did you not?”

One, two, three, keeping the distance she wants, Ingrid steps back and enters the hallway. She turns on her heel. There is no light to illuminate her.

“...We’re over,” she says, and he can’t see her, but he can hear her. Hear her guard, and it’s like a shield made of spikes, magic and mythril. An overcompensation for something else. “Goodbye.”

Ingrid’s heels click, clack, click, clack against the tiles of the hallway, matching his heartbeat, beating in legato. The crescendo ends as the door clangs shut.

She is gone.

His Knight is gone. Due to his carelessness. His callousness. His cruelty. It’s a shame, but it’s a consequence of a silly play he made ages ago.

The consequence of trying to replace a Queen with a Knight.

_~~“I love you,” said she, sensuous, sleepy, saintly, searchingly, while sickeningly sweetly, softly, serenely. Silk and satin below, Sothis’s silver star shining in her sable eyes, searching for him. Him, him, him. Her, her, her. Them. Sins absolved. Secrets spoken. Strength sanctified. “My love. My only love. Kha—”~~ _

Claude breathes. Breathes.

Breathes.

_Breathes._

In, out. In and out. Toes to torso, torso to the tip of the top of the head. He goes to the bathroom. Washes his face with cold water first. Then hot. Then, he finds the bag. Opens it. Finds the smaller bag. Opens it. Finds the smallest bag. Opens it. Finds the packet; the packet of pills. Reads the label; the label written in an indecipherable language. Runic. Foreign yet familiar. (He wishes they would teach him.) Opens the packet; the packet of pills.

Gargles. Drinks the two tablets down because last month’s dosage was missed. Gulps it down. Allows for a grimace. For a cough. Presses the fingers into the veins of the neck and shuts the eyes. Shudders.

Because, as ever, it tastes of blood.

Their blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay
> 
> hi
> 
> HI
> 
> GOD HEY GUYS GUESS WHO IS BACK WITH SUCH A HORRIBLE AND ANGSTY CHAPTER I AM SO SORRY. I wish I could've come back with a more happy chapter, but alas, this is not the chapter. Anyway, I was unable to update because the last two months of uni exhausted me. Thankfully, I have now finished it! YAY! So expect back to scheduled updating of CWV because I still love this fic and you guys with my love. 
> 
> Take care, guys. I know this chapter was A LOT. 
> 
> So! I know we're all here for Sylvgrid. I am utterly failing at this. As well as providing cute fluffy moments, so go read FLUFF BY THESE WONDERFUL PEOPLE:
> 
> [The Right Moment to Speak by tarinumenesse.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23815882)
> 
> Did you enjoy this chapter? WELL THANK THIS WONDERFUL WRITER WHO I CAN'T BELIEVE IS MY BETA NOW. That's right folks, we have a beta now! THANK YOU TARI YOU WERE SO HELPFUL! 
> 
> [and they were roommates... by nicolewrites.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1781311)
> 
> Look if you have been around the Sylvgrid tag you know nicolewrites and you know what she's great and she's awesome and she's super duper prolific and amazing. This series is a collection of VINE INSPIRED SYLVGRID ROOMMATE SHENANIGANS!!! If you need a chuckle after this chappie, go check it out.
> 
> [cotton & gauze by sunnilee](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24188362)
> 
> Ya'll. DO YOU KNOW THE QUEEN OF FLUFF!??!!? BECAUSE YOU ARE IN HER PRESENCE!!! Fun fact, this fic inspired CWV. Her series did. Sunnilee is the reason why this fic exists. Fluff queen. Inspired this. HOW?? I DON'T KNOW BUT GO COMFORT YOURSELF WITH SYLVGRID FLUFFNESS!!!
> 
> Anyway. 
> 
> Take care ya'll. 
> 
> I adore you all. 
> 
> (Btw, the actions and views taken by any characters in this fic do not at all represent me in any capacity. I disagree with these characters all the time.) 
> 
> Next chapter: We return to Sylvain. 
> 
> AND THANK FUCK!
> 
> Update:
> 
> 14th December 2020: Really struggling with the bastard known as writer's block, so I'm so sorry for no update after all this time. I'm also currently focusing on my piece for the Sylvgrid Big Bang, hence the wait. Thank you for your patience, my readers! I love all of you!
> 
> Update: January 10th. 
> 
> Work has commenced on CWV. I will NEVER give up on fic. Love you guys💓


	12. Continental Year 3019, 12th of the Blue Sea Moon.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> I'M BACK BITCHES
> 
> ALSO HAVE A MEME CAUSE IT'S BEEN A WHILE:
> 
> ON THE LAST EPISODE OF CHAMPAGNE, WINE AND VODKA...  
> 
> 
> [](https://imgflip.com/i/4to4n4)  
>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IMPORTANT:
> 
> I have developed a new system for Content Warnings. 
> 
> Firstly, every chapter will be labelled with a level of intensity and content warnings. I will use code, so that you choose to see it or not. 
> 
> Test: 
> 
> On PC, you hover/click. On mobile, you hold. 
> 
> The Intensity Levels:
> 
> Green: low intensity.
> 
> Amber: medium intensity. Example: not sure. Thoughts of any examples?
> 
> Red: high intensity. Example: Chapter 10 (Panic Attack Scene) and Chapter 11 (Knife Scene). 
> 
> The content warnings will also be categorised into the following categories:
> 
> -Phobias. (Example: arachnophobia, emetophobia.)  
> -Death. (Example: parental death, sibling death, suicide.)  
> -Discrimination. (Example: racism, homophobia, transphobia, ableism.)  
> -Mental Illness. (Example: abuse, depression, suicide, self-harm.)  
> -Relationships. (Examples: cheating, sexual assault, sexual harassment.)
> 
> The above are EXAMPLES. Just because these are in the list, IT DOES NOT MEAN that it will be in the fic. While Champagne, Wine and Vodka has truly divulged from its originally envisioned romcom path, it's NOT going to turn into a darkfic. Still, I wanted to develop a system, so I could better prepare my readers with curating their experience, as I was not satisfied with how I warned for the previous chapter. But ultimately, you are responsible for your mental health. I cannot list everything. For example, I will only list common phobias and if they appear substantially. Example: a spider is mentioned in passing. I will not warn for that. Please take care of yourself.
> 
> To clarify, when a content warning is paired with a level of intensity, it is impacted by the rating. For example, the level of intensity could be green and the content being depression. It could just be a mention. Were it amber, it may be an involved discussion about depression. Red: actual, heavy portrayal.
> 
> So, here we go:
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
> 

This is how Sylvain remembers their trip to the Rhodos Coast in Continental Year 3019.

Ingrid and Ashe, exploring the glimmering limestone caves, sand-surfing the sepia-hued dunes, and swimming through the shimmering green-toned seas of the coast, which they said made them feel so miniscule, so humbled and so _alive_. (And good for _them.)_

Sylvain and Dorothea, downing pricey martinis at rip-off tiki bars while bitching about nosey locals, one-shotting tequila shots as they limbo danced to the beat of generic EDM in equally generic nightclubs, and trying out... _mysterious_ _white powder_...at the trashiest of music festivals so that they could feel _alive._ (Oh, but it was mostly to get laid.)

Ingrid and Ashe, waking up in time for the sunrise, sitting at the sand-dusted steps leading down into the beach, surrounded by marram grass and squawking seagulls, watching as sun-kissed surfers swirled through briny, whirlwind waves.

Sylvain and Dorothea, waking up in time for sunset, sitting on toilets with no lids and no toilet paper, surrounded by crude graffiti and the familiar waft of astringent public restroom piss, and wondering _:_

_Where the fuck are we? How the fuck did we end up here?_

Ingrid, always holding Ashe’s hand as they walked down the cobblestone streets, never letting go, always smiling with the radiance of a gleaming dawn when she was with him, because she knew that he loved her and knew that she loved him back.

(So…was that what love was supposed to look like?)

Sylvain, always holding back Dorothea’s matted hair as she hurled yellow-green gooey goodness into the toilet bowl, never letting go, because if he did she’d puke all over his favourite Brigid shirt, which _she_ thought was kitschy and tacky.

(And did friendship always look like _this?)_

Ingrid and Ashe, two hopelessly lovey-dovey lovebirds, who thought that everything would be okay so long as they had each other.

Sylvain and Dorothea, two hopelessly _hopeless_ friends, who thought that everything would okay so long as they had each other to drown their sorrows with, and to bitch and to whine with, about love and life and family and friends—

Ingrid and Ashe (but mostly Ingrid) yelling at Sylvain and Dorothea to get their act together.

Sylvain and Dorothea (but mostly Dorothea) getting their act together.

Four friends, making up.

Four friends, making promises.

Four friends, making compromises.

Four friends, making sure that this would be the best trip _ever._

Ingrid took them all out to the best seafood places, the perfect pizza joints and the greatest of gastropubs to eat _absolutely_ _everything,_ because she wanted her friends to share in her joy in good food and good drinks. All without a care for her wallet.

Dorothea broke out in song and dance to a street busker’s acoustic tunes, took the mike at the hotel bar on trivia night; sang, danced, _performed_ , because her friends loved it and because _she_ loved it. All without a care about what people thought of her.

Ashe bartered down everyone’s purchases, gave away leftovers, hotel amenities and spare coins to any homeless person he passed, tipped the waiters and the bellboys and the taxi drivers too much money, because he was just so goddamn _nice_. All without a care to his wallet or what people thought about him.

Sylvain snapped sunny smiles with recalibrated polaroids, recorded videos of them laughing, joking, dancing, swimming, with his Dad’s old camcorder, creating evidence of their memories, because they were his friends. All because he loved them.

One trip. Four lives. Four friends. Fourteen days of bliss.

Everyday was a good day on the Rhodos Coast.

Except for the last day, because that was the day that Ashe: discovered he was allergic to crabs; sprained his thumb; _and_ caught the flu. All in one midsummer’s day. Such was his luck. Recuperating inside the hotel room, with an aching headache, clammy chills and nausea, there was no way that Ashe was going to make it to the fireworks. Which of course made Ingrid a guilty, guilty mess.

“I shouldn’t have offered him my crab leg—”

“I shouldn’t have let him carry my bags—”

“I shouldn’t have let him leave the hotel at night without his jacket—”

Guilty Ingrid would not eat or drink.

Guilty Ingrid would not let Ashe do anything for himself.

Guilty Ingrid would not stop smothering Ashe with blankets, pillows, towels, ice packs, hot water bottles, _everything_.

Guilty Ingrid would just not _stop,_ until Dorothea shook her by the collar, dragged her out of Ashe’s room, and pointed a red nail at her throat before yelling:

“Ingrid! You’re just making him feel _worse!_ It’s your first real trip and the last day of said trip. Don’t you think he wants you to have fun instead of mothering him? Look, I’ll take care of Ashe. You go have fun with Sylvain—and there will be no compromise, for this is an intervention.”

The pairings were as follows: Ingrid & Sylvain, Dorothea & Ashe. It was a welcome change in dynamic. Sylvain had missed Ingrid, after all, as she’d spent all her time with Ashe, then Dorothea, then him. So, it was a good chance to hang out. And to have fun.

Except that Ingrid was Ingrid, and Ingrid didn’t _know_ how to have fun.

It was mean, but true. Because the thing was this: Ingrid felt guilt so vividly, so frequently, so _intensely,_ that she denied herself fun. Not just fun—any form of positive emotion. Joy, mirth, serenity, awe—she wasn’t worthy. She wasn’t worthy, because someone she loved was suffering, so she had to suffer with them, because it would be so _selfish_ of her to do otherwise. She had that sort of stupidly unhealthy mindset.

A mindset that Sylvain remedied with a couple of cocktails, a few handfuls of vodka shots, and a glass of craft beer.

_“Wooooo-hooooo!”_

Because _drunk_ Ingrid was a wild, wild _hoot_ who knew nothing of guilt _._ Nada! Zilch! None at all! Drunk Ingrid was fearless, reckless and _guiltless_ , with her mojo and motto being, in her own words: ‘Guilt? Don’t know her.’ But most importantly, Drunk Ingrid was capable of _forgetting_. She could forget about Ashe, forget about guilt and forget about everything and anything _but_ having a good time.

A good time with her good old buddy, Sylvain, who remembers St. Cethleann’s day of Continental Year 3019, like this:

Drunk Ingrid, powered by the potency of a gazillion frilly little martinis, repeatedly smacking a built-as-Dedue bouncer on the shoulder as she wheezed out the Dad jokes Sylvain had dared her to tell him.

“I’m—I’m, _ha,_ on a seafood diet. I see food and I _eat_ it! Pfft!”

“I—ha! I, _oh my god,_ I ordered, like, a chicken and an egg online...and I’ll let you _know!_ Ah? Ah? Get it? Because of the chicken and the egg—”

“I like telling Dad jokes. Sometimes, he laughs!”

 _“...Get it?_ Because my Dad—”

Drunk Ingrid, invigorated by the alcohol in her system, whipping her hair back and forth, swaying her hips to old school reggae, singing along to sappy love songs, doing the ‘nae, nae’ and laughing and snorting and cackling and giggling as he joined her in everything that she did.

“Sylvain! I fucking _love_ this song!”

“Me too! Wow, were we always so compatible? I sense destiny, Ingrid!

“Ha!” She’d scream-cackled, rocking her head back as disco streamlights cast her skin in bokeh. _“Awesome!”_

Drunk Ingrid, emboldened with misplaced tipsy confidence, going up to some _guy_ with a choppy buzz cut, a lame as swordfish tattoo, and baggy jeans, jutting her chin up, whistling and saying:

“I’d tap that. Tap _you,_ baby. Wanna fu—”

Which, _no,_ was not going to happen under his (also admittedly tipsy) watch. And so, he’d dragged her out of the club and to the Rhodos beach where she’d made so many memories, namely with Ashe. Who Ingrid then had to tell him about, along with everything else about her beau.

Drunk Ingrid still loved Ashe, after all.

Drunk Ingrid, still sloshed but sobering up a little, told Sylvain how Ashe had always been so sweet to her, how he’d never give up on them just because they were long distance, how he promised to pass the Garreg Mach entrance exams, and how he’d helped her.

Helped her forget about Glenn.

(She did love Ashe. But she still loved Glenn, too.)

Glenn. Even Drunk Ingrid couldn’t be guiltless when he was brought up—Glenn had a sobering effect, after all. Which wasn’t good. Sylvain was there to make sure she had fun. Not to remember. So, he had to distract her.

Sylvain picked up a shell and said:

“I’m taking this home. Can’t be _too_ illegal, right?”

It was an obvious provocation. An obvious distraction.

Still, she took the bait.

“Do you _know_ how important biosecurity is?" Ingrid slurred, waving a finger in his direction. "The introduction of a single foreign specimen into a fragile ecosystem would—oh!”

Ingrid gasped as Sylvain pressed the crystalline conch against her ear.

He grinned. “Thoughts?”

Eyes widening, Ingrid’s hand travelled to hold the conch in Sylvain’s stead as he slowly let go, brushing against his skin in the process. His hand, now tucked away in his boardshort pockets, _tingled_ (and at the time, he blamed the wind, but now he knows that it was because of _her touch_ ) and he flexed his fingers, one by one. Anything to ward off the discomforting sense of pleasure.

“Sylvain, you can _hear_ it!”

The whooshes, swooshes, whirls and swirls of the ocean tide inside the seashell—such beauty, such calm, such tranquillity tucked away in the crevices of a conch. To him, it was common knowledge. But to her, it was the day a long-held belief was broken. She had always thought that it was a myth.

“You seriously didn’t know?” Sylvain teased, as he stepped into her space, eyeing her new, most favourite thing in the world. “That’s like grade school stuff. How did you _not_ know that?”

“Well, I know now, don’t I?” Ingrid replied as she swatted his wiggling fingers away with a glare. She blinked, then, as a flash of realisation crossed her features. Her glare returned with double the intensity. “...Hey. Wasn’t that _your_ fault? Because I swear that when we went to Seiros summer camp, when I was like nine, _you_ were the one who told me that—hey!”

While Ingrid was distracted, Sylvain snatched the conch away from her, ignoring her shouts and cries as he sprinted off, cackling in the manner of a cartoon villain who finally, _finally_ got his way.

“Give it back!” Ingrid yelled, her feet giving chase across the wet, squelching sand. “Give it _back_ , asshole!”

“Nope! I’m keeping it!” Sylvain yelled back, adrenaline pumping. “It’s a key ingredient to breaking all those biosecurity laws you mentioned, after all!”

_“Sylvain!”_

Childlike glee shot through him. His name on her lips—particularly when she was frustrated—had always felt so natural, so normal, so comforting. Sylvain knew that it was a weird thing to find pleasure in. Who liked the tone of _nagging?_ Apparently him; but only when it was her. Although he would never acknowledge it, because, again, it was _weird._ But with the way Ingrid’s voice upended in a shrieky squeal, her breath gaining a huffy quality to it, he just couldn’t help himself. He really couldn’t.

 _“Ingrid!”_ Sylvain yelled back, mimicking her tone, even though it didn’t feel quite right on his lips. Maybe she thought the same, because no response came. Looking over his shoulder, Sylvain’s sprint slowed to a halt. He frowned. “What? Are you giving up already?”

Ingrid, five or so metres away, glared at him over a pouty lip.

“It’s not fair. I’ve had so much to drink. I’ll never catch up.”

“Dude. What happened to Speedy Ingrid?”

“Felix is the one who’s fast on foot,” Ingrid replied. Grumbling, she kicked some sand around. “...I’m only quick on a horse.”

“Come on, give yourself some credit! You’re a good runner. Look, I’ll slow down for you.”

“That’s stupid. _And_ condescending.” Ingrid glowered. Then, with a sigh, she stopped scattering the sand about and turned on her heel. “Whatever. I don’t care anymore. Bye.”

“Aww, are you _mad?”_ Sylvain cooed. “Is Ingry angry?”

“Yes!” Ingrid shouted. As she stomped away, she flipped him off over her shoulder. “So leave me alone!”

“Oh, don’t be like that!” Sylvain shouted. Then, as she ignored him, he sighed and began to follow her from a distance. “Look. If you just come _a little bit_ closer, I’ll give it back to you. Promise.”

“No, you won’t!” Ingrid yelled over her shoulder, nose scrunched. She tapped a finger on her forehead. “You’ll flick me and run off. I know how you work, Sylvain.”

Yep. That was _exactly_ what he was going to do. Caught red-handed, he didn’t bother defending himself.

“So, you’re not going to come get me?” Sylvain continued. Silence met him, and he shrugged. With a grin, he yelled, “Guess I’ll just have to go to you instead!”

“Ugh! Stay away!” Ingrid groaned, her stomp turning into a jog. “Heathen!”

Brows narrowing, Sylvain’s pace quickened. “Heathen of what, exactly?”

“Heathen, troglodyte, pancake bottomed manwhore, poopyhead, ginger, and—” Ingrid twirled, running backwards as she shouted these insults at him with a mean-spirited sticking out of the tongue, before her facade crumbled with her next words, “—asshole with a waxed _and_ bleached asshole!”

Sylvain stopped. He pouted.

“...Now you’re just being cruel,” he said. “I can’t help being a ginger.”

Sylvain saw her laugh, but didn’t hear it. Because it was at that moment that the fireworks show started off with a _boom, boom, boom_ , deafening her giggles and snorts and shrieks of laughter. It was a shame, truly, but the sight of her nearly made up for it. Ingrid, clasping her belly, nearly losing her footing as her knees wobbled. Head rocking back, Ingrid’s long locks cascaded over her shoulders while she laughed, laughed and laughed.

“You can just dye it, silly! I mean, not that you should. It suits you. But anyway!”

Once recovered from her laughter, Ingrid spun around in circles, humming; her short hibiscus sundress flaring with the movement, the distant fireworks forming pretty patterns across the thin fabric.

“Say something mean back!” she yelled.

“Alright, ” said Sylvain, shrugging. He then bit his smile down. “Princess, gorgeous, bombshell blonde babe, cutiepie, girl of my dreams—” That last one slipped without meaning; it felt weird, unsettled him a little too much for comfort, so he improvised on the spot, branding it with a ‘Sylvainism’, “—specifically, girl of my _wet_ dreams.”

Ingrid stopped spinning. Her face slowly contorted into a grimace.

“Ew.” She mock-gagged. “Now I feel so sick. Seriously, _so_ sick.”

“You sure it wasn’t the ‘spinning around in a circle’ part that made you feel that way?” Sylvain replied. “Which, by the way, was absolutely adorable.”

Ingrid scowled. “I will vomit all over your stupid shirt.”

“From all the way there?” Sylvain motioned to the distant gap between them. “And my shirt is not stupid, okay? Leave it alone.”

“Ever heard of something called projectile vomiting?” Ingrid huffed, hand on her hip. “And it is, okay? It’s so tacky and ugly and the colours are too bright for the flowers.”

“One: that’s disgusting.” Sylvain retorted with a grimace. “Two: you don’t get to insult my shirt and get away with it.”

Smirking, Ingrid folded her arms. “Just try me.”

He stared. She stared back. He chose to lose the match, reaching into his pocket to retrieve the conch. As predicted, her eyes sparkled.

“Ingrid,” Sylvain yelled, “catch _this!”_

Sylvain threw the conch overhead, watching as Ingrid stammered and fumbled and panicked, her eyes zooming into the conch, hands ready to catch her newest obsession—before he rushed in, threw her over his shoulder and ran.

“Wha— _Sylvain!”_ Ingrid screamed, her fists thumping against his back, her legs kicking his chest. Giggles bubbling up her throat, she squealed, “Lemme go!”

_“Neveeeeeer!”_

“I didn’t catch it! It’s still back there, you dingus!”

“If you wish for freedom—” Sylvain put on a voice reminiscent of a period drama revolutionary, “then _fight_ for it, you fool!”

As Sylvain sprinted them both across the empty expanse of the Rhodos Coast at dreamy dusk, the fireworks exploded, booming, _bursting,_ burgeoning, hiding the highs of her screams, his laughs, and her squeals. Heart pounding in his ears, breath harshening with each heavy step he took across the sinking sands, eyes blurry from the rushing winds, Sylvain felt _alive._ Alive and here and present—enjoying life and all of its joys; the joy of having a girl over your shoulder, squealing, laughing; the joy of Mother Nature basking your skin in incandescent glory; the joy of everything and anything that was _beautiful._

Nothing could compare to this, nothing would ever come close, not to this sense of vitality and existence—not the alcohol, not the drugs, not the mindless fucking. Just this. This pure fucking _bliss_.

“Take—” Ingrid began, “ — _this!”_

Pure fucking bliss which twisted into pure fucking agony as Ingrid eviscaerated his nads with a kickass “hi- _yah!’’_

Groaning with the resonance of a thousand tortured souls, Sylvain keeled over, hands covering his descendant-developers. Meanwhile, Ingrid nosedived into the sand alongside him with a cute as all hell _‘eep_!’

She somehow didn’t predict that if _he_ fell, _she_ fell.

Sylvain stayed there for a while, motionless, groaning, gaining his bearings. His production company having been utterly pummelled by an unexpected recession, it _very_ understandably took him a while to recover.

Ingrid, meanwhile, recovered quickly.

“Oh goddess—pff! Oh my—I _can’t!”_

There she was, belly laughing, silky skin covered in silky sand, with her short, skimpy sundress climbing up her knees and up her thighs—and he stopped looking after that—as she rolled around next to him, so _silly_ , arms wrapped around her chest that heaved with her breathless laughter, stray tears trailing down her cheeks, the droplets sinking into the beach’s earth.

“You right there?” Sylvain asked.

“Are you—pff! Oh, oh no, I’m _so_ sorry—are _you?_ Okay, I mean? Because when I kicked you, you totally— _I can’t_ _breathe!”_

“Please don’t die from laughter-induced asphyxiation caused by you decimating my semen demon. For one, how would I even explain that to your family—”

“Don’t,” Ingrid whispered harshly, grinning. “Don’t call it that.”

“Semen demon?”

_“I can’t—”_

By the time his semen demon recovered, Ingrid had too, but even so, they didn’t move. They stayed there, on the sand, watching as the fireworks show painted the night sky with purple swirls, red carnations, golden glitter, and silver streams.

Ingrid was the first to break the silence.

“...Hey, Sylvain?”

He looked at her. “Yeah?”

And her eyes—lit up by the _boom, boom, boom_ of the scorching fireworks—dazzled as she watched him, gaze burning bright, shining under the scattering rainbows of the night.

She grinned at him, then, and said, “If I had needed it just now, would you have performed CPR on me?”

And his eyes—reflected in her bright, curious gaze—widened. Because she was implying something. Something that he never that she—Ingrid—would ever imply. And he won’t lie. His heart _did_ skip a beat. Just a little. Just a few paces quicker than usual. Just enough for his voice to crack.

“W-well—” He cleared his throat. “You clearly didn’t need it.”

 _“If,”_ Ingrid emphasised, teeth dragging her bottom lip down, lingering as she pronounced the ‘f’. “I said, _if,_ Sylvain.”

Sylvain looked away with a nod, pretending that he did so with thoughtful intentions, rather than to hide the fact that he had been staring at her lips for far too long.

“Sure. But only _if,”_ Sylvain copied, biting his bottom lip, dragging it down—and it may have been a trick of the light, but he _swore_ she stared too—before continuing, “You let me get some tongue action in.”

“Sure.”

“Just kid—excuse me, _what?”_

“Look, in this scenario, I am _dying,_ ” Ingrid retorted, poking him on the cheek, making him flinch like a middle-schooler. Thankfully, she didn’t comment, too focused on her argument. “I can’t afford to be fussy about my options, can I?”

“Because if you had to choose between dying or being kissed by me,” said Sylvain, “you’d rather choose me. Because, duh. Death.”

“Yep,” said Ingrid. Then, she flashed him a smirk. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

Sylvain didn’t know what to say to that. So, he ignored it.

“Right! So, we should probably head back soon. Hope you had fun! I did, I know you did, because tonight was _great.”_ With wobbly knees, Sylvain hopped up, dusting off the sand from his boardshorts, before flashing Ingrid an amicable smile. He offered her his hand. “Now, milady, do accept my generous offer of helping you get up from this treacherous landscape, before I kiss—”

A tug, a grip, a tangle of limbs—Sylvain fell down to the sound of Ingrid’s giggles, the sight of her devilish grin, and then her pleased: “Got you!”

“...Do you _want_ to forever be stuck in the sand?” Sylvain scowled, looking over at Ingrid, who sat by his side. “Because _I_ don’t.”

“Nah, I don’t wanna go back,” Ingrid replied, hugging her knees. “Not yet.”

He raised a brow. “And why is that?”

Her smile dropped. She paused for a moment, appearing to contemplate something. Then, she stared at him. He stared back, but not for long—her gaze was so _intense,_ after all. It made his skin tingle. Burn.

Picking herself up by the knees, Ingrid plodded her way through the sand. She headed towards him, arriving by him and landing—landing _over_ him, trapping him under her weight, elbows set above his shoulders, limbs entangling his limbs, the length of her hair tickling his cheeks. He gulped.

And Ingrid grinned. Impudently. Beautifully. Drunkenly. And, _damn it,_ he’d nearly forgotten. She was _Drunk_ Ingrid, not _Ingrid_ Ingrid. Ingrid would never—

“...Hey,” she whispered, hand curving around his cheek. “You’ll forgive me, right?”

Drunk Ingrid was drunk _._

She didn’t mean anything by it.

She didn't know what she was doing.

She didn’t actually want to kiss him.

Yet, she did.

Ingrid kissed him. Then and there, she kissed him, as if there was nothing wrong with that. As if she meant it. As if she wanted to. As if she wasn’t going to regret it, or take it back, or pretend that it had never happened.

As if she never, _ever_ wanted to stop.

Because her hands cupped his cheeks, her fingers lightly dusted off the grains of sand from his face, before travelling up to his scalp to interweave his locks with her fingers, and _pulled, pulled, pulled him_ , deeply into _her_.

Because her nose gently nudged his, her lashes softly fluttering against his skin, before she opened her eyes—her twinkling, sparkling, vivid viridian, staring right into his soul, hypnotising him, enchanting, capturing him, deeming him hers.

Because of her _lips, teeth and tongue._

Because her lips brushed against his, pressed against his, moulded _with_ his, sucking his bottom lip, crushing _hard, hard, hard._ All as if she was made for it, as if there were no place better than for her lips to be on his, as if she loved it, and _wanted_ more, and _wanted_ him to _want_ her back.

Because her teeth nipped, nicked and traced—pulling, tugging, dragging, making him _feel, feel, feel._ Feel the pain mix with the pleasure, _becoming_ pleasure, leaving marks, bruises, evidence that he did not know whether he should want—on swollen, reddened lips.

Because of her _tongue._ That _tongue,_ which started innocently enough, prodding around the rim of his lips, tracing, outlining, testing whether he’d let her go any further—and when she used her hands, lips, fingers and teeth the way that she did, how the _fuck_ could he not? He shouldn’t have, he fucking knows that, he _really_ fucking does. But he gave her entry anyway, permission, and that was the ultimate _fucking_ mistake, because apparently, Ingrid knew how to use her tongue just as well as she could make him laugh—so, so, so _fucking_ easily.

She curled her tongue around his, swirling, massaging, pulling out again, nipping, biting, tracing the outlines of his bruising mouth, prodding it open again, _sucking his fucking tongue,_ moaning breathlessly as he loosened her hair, tugging it to the side, weaving his fingers through, letting _him_ take charge now, because this was so fucking _unfair_.

Sylvain kissed her, did what she did back, rolled her over and pressed her body into his body, into the sand, into him, showing her the results of his self-destructive yearning for touch and feel—and then, he pulled her away from him.

Their eyes met.

And then he breathed and then she breathed, and then her breath, which smelled of sweet peach martinis, bitter green apple vodka, fuzzy craft beers, intertwined with—

Alcohol. Her breath smelled of alcohol.

She was drunk. She was drunk. She was _drunk_.

In those two minutes, he let her ruin everything and then he ruined everything back. Everything. Ruin _their_ relationship, ruin _her_ relationship with the sweetest person he knew, the person who loved her and who she loved back. Ingrid and Ashe, ruined. Ingrid and Sylvain, ruined.

They ruined it, the both of them, _he_ ruined it, _she_ —

“Oh, this is bad, I’m _gonna…!”_

—vomited on his best Brigid shirt right after kissing him.

Yeah.

Drunk Ingrid vomited on his _best Brigid shirt_ —which was a one of a kind _vintage,_ damn it—but not only that, for Drunk Ingrid then _passed out._

Drunk Ingrid, who was covered in grimy vomit and sea-soaked sand, remained motionless, and honestly? She may have needed medical attention for what _might_ have been alcohol poisoning. Or, maybe, Drunk Ingrid had momentarily reverted to Sober Ingrid and realised that: _Oh, shit. Did I just accidentally cheat on Ashe? Oh. Oh no. Oh, no no no—_ and then decided death was the only viable option.

Drunk Ingrid, who was blackout drunk and was _not_ going to move, needed to be carried up from the beach, up the steps, back into the hotel, by Sylvain, who was barefoot all the way because Drunk Ingrid threw his flip-flops at a cyclist because he looked at her funny.

Drunk Ingrid, who was covered in vomit and had covered _him_ in vomit, needed to be cleaned up and it wasn’t going to be him. No way José. _That_ responsibility would be Dorothea’s. He doesn’t even feel bad about throwing that onto her, because _no way José_.

No. Instead, he went to bed with the explicit purpose of forgetting everything that had happened. The partying, the Dad jokes, the _vomit,_ and even the mouth-to-mouth thingy that shan’t be named _,_ Sylvain would forget it all. He was a generous gentleman, a real stand-up guy, but above all else: her _friend_. Her _best_ friend. And she was his, too.

So, he would forget. He _would_.

Forget.

Forget, forget.

_Forget._

…Except that’s the exact _opposite_ of what ended up happening. Instead of forgetting, it was burned, engraved, _carved_ , into his memory like a goddamn horse hoof. Because Ingrid _kissed_ him, damn it. _Sylvain!_ She kissed him! How could he forget? It was impossible, because something that he thought impossible _happened_.

And you don't just forget that—you take that with you to the _grave._

But that wasn't the case for Ingrid.

When Ingrid dragged herself into the backseat of the rented hatchback that morning, looking as if she had the worst hangover in the history of humankind, she said this:

“What was the point of going out if I don’t even get to remember anything? God. I should’ve stayed at the hotel—my _headache...”_

Hungover Ingrid didn't remember a _damn_ thing.

Nada. Zilch. Nothing at all.

Which was _so_ goddamn unfair. So cruel. So ridiculously _frustrating_. And he knew that he shouldn’t have felt that way—he should’ve felt _relief._

Relief that Ashe wouldn’t have his heart broken.

Relief that Ingrid wouldn’t be so consumed with guilt that she would destroy herself.

Relief that the status quo would stay the same.

He felt none of this. None. But he could pretend to. Could act like it. Could convince himself otherwise.

Lying was his speciality, after all.

So, as Dorothea ignited the car's engine with the turn of her keys, as Ashe rolled down the windows to let in a fresh breeze, and as Ingrid looked up from Sylvain’s shoulder with a tired gaze, he smiled, swept aside her sweaty fringe, and said:

"You vomited on me and ruined my St. Cethleann's. That's all you need to know.”

One trip.

“Ladies and gents!” Dorothea shouted. “Have you all taken your motion sickness pills? Because you’ll _need_ it. Otherwise, you’ll be cleaning up your own puke, because I refuse to do it after everything I went through last night. Capiche?”

Two lives.

“Oh…” Ashe groaned, reaching over from the front seat to open the latch. “I should...do...that…”

Two friends.

“...Sylvain?” Ingrid mumbled, digging her face into his shoulder, her fingers clutching his second best Brigid shirt. “I’m so sorry. Forgive me?”

Two minutes spent in bliss.

“You know me,” Sylvain whispered in Ingrid's ear, resting his own head on her shoulder. He closed his eyes, lips forming a small smile. “I’ll forgive you. Always.”

Continental Year 3019, 12th of the Blue Sea Moon.

That was the day that Sylvain Jose Gautier had his heart stolen by a woman who didn’t even know she had it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I MISSED YOU GUYS ALL SO MUCH!!
> 
> Hey, remember when I said: "Oh, I'll write so much during the holidays!" 
> 
> bUt tHen i dIdN't
> 
> WELL GOOD NEWS
> 
> The next chapter of CWV has 90% of it written at 6k. You see, this chapter was meant to be a much shorter scene and updated alongside the next one. But I realised it worked better as a single chap. Plus, it heralds in our next new arc, which I will now reveal now:
> 
> ✨THE RHODOS COAST ARC✨
> 
> ARE YOU EXCITED
> 
> BECAUSE I AM!!!
> 
> Also, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! I think we all needed it after the mess that was last chapter, yikes. 
> 
> ...but AT THE SAME TIME YET AGAIN WE ENTER A MORALLY GREY AREA AS INGRID KISSED SYLVAIN (drunk, sure, yes, whatever) WHILE STILL WITH ASHE....POOR BABY!!! Hey, at least he's with a Queen now. Like, a literal queen. You go Ashe. Look at him, moving up in the world. 
> 
> Lesson: Ingrid needs to stay away from alcohol.
> 
> Anyway, I love you guys so much, I'll see you next Monday-ish😘
> 
> except you mish i hate you for this:

**Author's Note:**

> Relevant minor relationships:
> 
> past Annette/Felix (But it's complicated.)
> 
> past Sylvain/Mercedes 
> 
> minor Dorothea/Felix (But it's complicated.)
> 
> past Dorothea/Ferdinand
> 
> minor Mercedes/Dedue
> 
> mentioned Petra/Ashe
> 
> This is the least spoilery that I can get. In the grand scheme of things, there are more minor relationships, but that is not relevant for this fic.


End file.
